Winter Whispers
by Judah Jones
Summary: Robb Stark and Aillith Baratheon attempt to overcome their differences and struggle with questions of familial loyalty. Is their marriage as doomed as it seems or can they overcome the long winter ahead?
1. Chapter 1

"In the sky, my soul is found, And my body in the ground."

Aillith

The bells tolled throughout King's Landing in honor of Jon Arryn, late hand of the king. The sound rippled across Blackwater Bay where Aillith stood at the edge of the dock, peering out across the dark sea. A storm brewed overhead, but as yet the clouds held their tears. Ships bobbed in the harbor, the wind whipping at their sails and tangling the silk folds of Aillith's dress around her legs.

"My lady, we ought to return before the rain comes," Alodie, her hand maid and trusted friend, spoke.

"A moment more," Aillith said. She didn't look back at the slight, blonde girl who'd been her companion since childhood. If the rains came, Aillith wouldn't notice. In her mind she was far away across the ocean. As a young girl, her septa had told her stories of the lands of eternal summer all the way at far reaches of the world. Strange places with stranger gods, pyramids made of gold and sapphires, a sea of grass stretching as far as they eye could see and farther still. They were lands the princess had once dreamed of, but hadn't thought of for many years until today.

Ravens from the North, flying on swift wings, had come with words of winter. News of their arrival had swept through the city like dragon fire from tales of old- burning from the inner sanctum of the small council all the way to the sewers of Flea Bottom. _Winter_ was on every tongue. Yet the day was warm and Aillith found it hard to believe the news, though she supposed the men of the Nightswatch knew a good deal more about it than she did.

She barely remembered the last winter. It'd had been nine years ago and she'd been just a child, kept safe in Maegors Holdfast from the horrors winter brought with it. Septa Bly had shuddered when they'd been told of the ravens' tidings. Then again the old woman shuddered at everything. _She'll be shaking like a leaf caught in the storm when she realizes I'm not in my chambers practicing my needlepoint_, Aillith thought. She looked at her bandaged fingers. If she practiced much more her hands would be riddled with holes. Even Myrcella, nine years younger than her, was better with a needle. _Myrcella has never even known a winter._

The first drops of rain struck the princess' cheeks. Kisses from the gods, Septa Bly often called them. Aillith held her face up to the sky and smiled. Although her mother didn't approve of her visits to the docks, she'd always loved to watch the ships come and go. Back and forth, to and from places she'd never see. Aillith often came here to escape the Red Keep with its walls and its rules. She came to forget who she was, though the gold-cloaked guard at her back made the task difficult. No matter where she went, even at the docks, there was someone watching her.

Winter is coming. The words were a plague. Aillith felt cold, despite the warmth of the day. She'd woken that morning with a cloud hanging heavy over her. She couldn't say why, but the news of the coming winter seemed like a dark omen.

The young princess turned her back on the sea. She wasn't ready to leave, but the rain was falling harder now and she'd need to change before she met with her mother. While she was tempted to appear before the queen dripping wet, always seeking for a way to displease her mother though she did it easily enough without trying, she wasn't in the mood for a fight today. So with Alodie and the gold-cloak trailing behind her, she began the march back to the Keep.

The gold-cloak, silent as ever, remained outside of the princess' chambers. A fire had been lit in her absence and Aillith was pleased to find that Septa Bly was nowhere to be found. She held out her arm and allowed Alodie to lift the sodden gown over her head. Naked as they day she'd come screaming into the world, she stood by the fire. Heat rolled over her bare skin, but did nothing for the chill inside of her.

"What would you like to wear, my lady?"

"Choose for me," Aillith said. Her thoughts were still elsewhere. She leaned over the hearth and squeezed the rain-water from her long, dark hair. Of the four royal children, she was the only one to share the king's coloring- black curls, blue-grey eyes and pale, freckled skin. She even had his rounded chin, though her father's was much rounder now than it once had been.

"Will this one do, my lady?" Alodie asked. The princess nodded without looking at the gown her maid held up. She lifted her arm, letting more silk slide over her skin. She held her breath as Alodie pulled the bodice laces as tight as they'd go. When she was dressed once more, Aillith sat on a cushioned stool by the hearth and let the maid comb the tangles from her damp hair. Usually the gentle pull of Alodie's fingers was soothing, but today it seemed even the smallest of touches was cause for pain.

"Do you remember the last winter?" Aillith asked. The maid was close to her in age, but she hadn't lived in the Keep nine years ago. Perhaps she'd seen more of winter outside the castle walls.

"Very little, my lady." Alodie's hands paused for a moment. "My mother fell ill. I remember how she complained of the cold, though I do not remember it for myself."

"What happened to her? Your mother?"

"She died. That's why my father sent me here. I don't think he knew what to do with a daughter."

"Apologies." Aillith shifted on her stool to face the maid. All their years together and she'd never known that Alodie's mother was dead. She'd never asked. The maid shrugged off her apology and smiled just as cheerful as ever.

"I'd rather have no mother than have yours," she said. Her words might be considered treason had anyone overheard them. Aillith didn't intend to tell anyone though. She liked when Alodie spoke to her honestly. Most people only told her what they were supposed to. Their words so honeyed it made her sick.

"Why do you think my mother's summoned me?" the princess asked. She'd been trying to answer the question all day, since she'd received the note with her breakfast.

The queen rarely spoke to her oldest daughter in private. In fact, the last time had been after Aillith's first flowering three years past, when she'd been told her duty as a woman. Audiences with the queen were never pleasant. They were always and excuse for her mother to list all of the ways Aillith had disappointed her. Try as she might, she'd never mastered being a proper princess, though it was a role she'd been born into.

"I haven't a clue, my lady. The queen doesn't share her personal thoughts with me." Alodie tied a white ribbon around the end of Aillith's braid and stepped back to admire her work.

"All done," she said. "Now whatever it is your mother has to say, she won't have cause to complain about your appearance."

"She'll find something." _She always does._ Aillith picked at the end of her braid. The maid swatted at the princess' hand to keep her from ruining all the work she'd just done.

"I'll make sure there are sugared plums with your dinner," Alodie said, knowing how much the princess loved them. Aillith graced her with an appreciative smile. Then she set out on her own to the queen's gardens. Her slippers whispered against the marble floor.

Aillith couldn't escape the feeling that she was walking to her doom as she made her way through the familiar corridors. She felt the haze winter of her childhood breathing ice against the back of her neck and tried to think of the promise of sugared plums instead.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I have a few chapters of this story already written, but I make no promises for prompt updates once school as started again. Also the beginning might drag a bit. Each chapter will be relatively short though and broken up George R.R. Martin style by character. So read, review, enjoy.

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"Dreams are but interludes that fancy makes..." -John Dryden

Robb

Three days ago ravens had come from Castle Black with their words of winter. Since then Robb Stark's dreams had been plagued by creatures from Old Nan's stories- white walkers scaling the walls of Winterfell, grumpkins and snarks prowling the shadows of his slumber. In the daylight hours, he knew they were only stories meant to frighten children, but though he was a man grown at night they came alive again.

This past night had been no different. He woke from a terrible nightmare when the doors to his chamber were flung open. Robb leapt from his bed, the blankets knotted around his waist, expecting to see a white walker and instead found himself staring down at his youngest sister. Either Arya didn't notice his defensive stance or she as too excited to care. Her cheeks were flushed and she still wore only her thin, nightgown.

"A messenger," she cried, breathless from her climb up the stairs. Robb looked at her dumbstruck, his mind still clouded by sleep. The first light of morning had only just begun to slink in through the window. Now fully certain that the intruder was no white walker, Robb fell back onto his bed. His initial panic faded to irritation had having been woken so abruptly.

"Go away," he grumbled, already nestling back into the warmth of his blankets. Arya strode across the room, leaned over him and drew the covers from his face.

"They're from King's Landing," she said stubbornly. "I just saw them in the yard."

"I don't care where they're from," Robb said as he tried to retrieve the blankets. For a girl of ten she was exceptionally strong and even more persistent. The messenger could have been from the fairy realm for all Robb cared. He hadn't slept well since the ravens arrived and all he longed to do was slip back into a hopefully dreamless sleep.

"Then I suppose you don't care that they're riding under the king's banner," Arya said, catching Robb's attention quick enough. He leapt from bed for a second time, hurriedly threw on the previous day's garments still strewn across the floor and left his chambers with Arya close on his heels.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To find father." _A message from the king? What could he possibly want with us?_ It wasn't how Robb had expected his morning to go, yet he didn't waste any time thinking about what he'd just been told. Often his father told him he ought to think before acting, but the only thing on his mind was finding Lord Eddard and discovering if Arya's words were true. She wasn't one to tell tales. Still he couldn't bring himself to believe her until he heard the words from their father's lips.

Winterfell was many leagues from King's Landing. They didn't often receive missives from the king in their frozen corner of the Seven Kingdoms. If Robert Baratheon had bothered sending a messenger all that way, through miles of difficult travel, it must be of the utmost importance.

Arya struggled to keep pace with Robb's longer stride as he made his way to the place he knew he'd find their father, the godswood. It was where Lord Eddard began each day. While the rest of them slept past day break, he would rise hours before sunrise to meditate in the sacred grove of the old gods. Wishing he'd brought a cloak, Robb hurried across the courtyard. His breath curled in puffs of cold white around him.

Sure enough when they reached the godswood, they found their father kneeling before the heart tree with a letter clutched tightly in hand and, to Robb's discomfort, eyes red from crying. Never had he seen his father cry. Lord Eddard was a northman. The blood of the first men flowed through his veins._ A man of ice and stone._

"Father," Robb said to make their presence known. Their father looked up from his prayer and smiled fondly at them.

"Word does travel fast," he said, already knowing the cause behind their coming. His eyes lingered on Robb for a moment and then moved to Arya. A frown came to him at the sight of her shivering in her nightgown. Arya, however, seemed not to notice the chill.

"What does the king want?" she demanded.

"Go back inside," Eddard said. Anticipating her protest, he continued. "I'll tell you all you need know once you're dressed, but if you catch your death of cold out here I won't be able to."

Sulking, Arya spun on her heels and marched back the way they'd just come. Without her, the silence of the godswood left Robb feeling uneasy. His father's silence even more so. Eddard Stark turned back to the heart tree. Though Robb's curiosity burned within him, he held his tongue, knowing that his father would speak only when he was ready to. Long minutes passed before Eddard found his words again.

"Jon Arryn is dead," he said, making sense of his tears. Though Robb had never met the man, he knew how Jon Arryn had been practically a father to Eddard after his own was killed by the Mad King.

Unsure what to say, Robb simply settled with, "I'm sorry. I know he was dear to you."

"That he was." Eddard glanced to the letter in his hands. "He was the best king's hand this land has seen in a long time and he will be sorely missed."

Suddenly ashamed of intruding on his father's moment of mourning, Robb moved to leave, but Eddard stopped him with a single look.

"The king sends more news," he said. "He intends to visit Winterfell."

For the second time that morning, Robb found himself utterly dumbstruck. For reasons he couldn't explain dread washed over him. Perhaps his sense of doom was wrought from the lingering presence of his nightmares or the threat of winter on the horizon. Or perhaps it was brought on by the hard lines of his father's expression.

"You think he means to ask you to be his new hand," Robb stated. His father smiled at the assumption, but didn't deny it. Robb had always been quick to piece two and two together.

"I do," Eddard admitted.

"Did he say as much in the letter?"

"He didn't need to. I know Robert better than I know any man."

"Aren't you pleased? It's an honor, after all," Robb said, unsure as to why his father seemed so distraught by the king's tidings.

"I'm content with the position I already have," Eddard said. "There's more though. Robert has offered us another honor."

Again Robb was gripped by the iron clutched of dread. As his father divulged the remaining contents of the king's letter his fears were confirmed. No, this certainly wasn't how he'd expected his morning to go. He rather preferred his nightmares to the news revealed to him in the godswood.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Oh, and the ages of the characters are as they are in the show, but the story itself will follow the plots of both the television series and the books.

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"The silent bear no witness against themselves." -Aldous Huxley

Aillith

The young princess bided her time as she walked along the stone pathways of the queen's private gardens. Her mind was awhirl with all the things her mother could possibly wish to tell her, none of them good. The heady perfume of the roses tickled Aillith's nose, the smell bringing forth memories of the days she'd played here with Joffery. That time seemed far away now.

The queen waited for her by the lily pond, beautiful as always with the fading light of day streaming through her golden hair. It was a beauty Aillith hadn't inherited. As a child she'd been too thin, too short, too clumsy. Now a woman grown she hadn't much improved. Her foot caught on a flagstone as she approached her mother and she stumbled over the hem of her dress, but the queen didn't notice. She was gazing into the pond, at the lilies drifting over the clear water.

Aillith stopped a few feet from the bench where her mother sat. She looked at the fish swimming in the pond, remembered the time she'd pushed Joffery into it when he'd called her ugly. She used to dip her feet in the water and let the fish nibble her toes. They'd been her only friends for a long time. She'd talked to them, grateful to have someone to listen to her without reprimanding her in return. But today her mother would do the talking.

The queen finally looked at her with cool, blue eyes. She studied her thoughtfully for a moment before patting the empty space on the bench beside her. Aillith sat stiffly. She hardly dared breathe for fear of doing it wrong.

"Your father," the queen began. "Has decided it's time for you to marry."

Each word struck Aillith like the flat end of a sword. She pressed her lips around the scream building inside of her. This was the moment she'd feared from her very first flowering. The moment she'd felt lingering over her like an executioner's blade.

"To whom?" She forced the question out between her teeth. The answer mattered little to her. She didn't care where they planned to send her or to which man's bed they intended her to warm.

"To Robb Stark of Winterfell." The queen said the name as though it tasted bitter. Aillith balked. _Winterfell_. It was worse than she'd imagined. Winterfell was far away in the cold, desolate north.

"No," Aillith spat before she could stop herself. She leapt to her feet. The queen's eyes remained frozen. Her voice was even colder when she spoke again.

"Lord Stark is a true friend of your father's."

"I won't." Aillith stomped her foot like a child in the midst of a tantrum. She didn't care about Lord Stark or his son. She'd never met either of them and she didn't plan to. Her calm mask slipped away as red, hot anger flushed through her.

"You will. Stark is an old and noble house. It is your father and your king's command that you wed their heir."

"Bugger the king's command. I'm not a piece of property to be given out!"

"You're a woman," the queen chuckled. "Therefore you are property."

"Just because you let yourself be whored to a-" Before the princess could finish, the queen rose and slapped her hard across the face. Aillith brought a hand to her stinging cheek. She hated herself for the tears she felt pooling in her eyes.

"You will temper your tongue," the queen said, her words dripping frost. "You will _whore_ yourself to Robb Stark, if that's the way you wish to see it. You will give him children, do your duty as a princess and hate every moment of it. Do you understand?"

Aillith nodded. She felt her life running through her fingers like water from the pond. At least what little of a life remained to her.

"Good," her mother said. She gathered her skirts and moved to leave, but paused after a few steps. "We leave for Winterfell in three days."

Then she was gone, leaving Aillith alone by the pond.

Three days and she'd be off to meet her husband- a man she didn't know at all. The princess crumpled at the edge of the water. She buried her face in her hands to conceal her tears of rage and sorrow. Three days and she'd be taken from the only home she'd ever known, sent to live in the icy clutches of the north. It was her duty as a princess, but then more than ever she wished to be someone else, a commoner's daughter. She could rant and wish as much as she liked, still there was no changing the fate of her birth.

She was a princess. She was a slave and winter was coming. Perhaps the wall had ceased weeping, but Aillith sensed that her tears had only just begun.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Read, review, enjoy :)

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"Home is where the heart is, so your real home's in your chest."

Aillith

Aillith could still see Maegors Holdfast, a glittering pinnacle atop Aegon's Hill, from where she stood. Earlier that morning she'd said farewell to each of her favorite places- the wharves, her mother's gardens and the deep underground crypt where the fearsome dragon skulls of old slumbered undisturbed. There was no knowing when, or if, she'd ever walk the familiar corridors and streets of her birth again. She felt smaller than ever looking up at the capitol. She was a speck compared to the sprawling city.

"Do you think we will ever return, my lady?" Alodie asked. The princess tore her eyes from King's Landing to look at her maid.

"I don't know," she admitted. "You could stay though. I won't force you to come with me."

"No," the maid said staunchly. "My place is with you and always has been." The young women exchanged smiles. Aillith took the maid's hand. She didn't know what awaited her in Winterfell, but she was comforted by the thought that she wouldn't be completely alone.

"We should join the others," Alodie said after a moment. The rest of the royal entourage had already moved further down the King's Road. Aillith sighed. She made a final glance at the capitol, grasping at every detail- the way the sun sparkled on the sea, even brighter than the crystals adorning Baelor's Sept, and the smell of salt and sweat, horse dung and fresh fish wafting up from the market. Where she was going there would be no ocean. Only snow and ice, stone and ghosts. That was to be her home now.

Wither her fate weighing heavy upon her, Aillith gave her horse a gentle nudge to the ribs and turned her back on King's Landing. She whispered a final farewell as she galloped towards the marching party ahead, Alodie close at her heels. The Red Keep disappeared behind them. The young princess didn't look back, for if she had there would have been no going forward.

At the rear of the party, her Uncle Tyrion waited for her. The sight of him was a blessing. His presence on the long journey ahead would be her only comfort. She'd never feared their odd, little uncle. Not as Joffery had when they were children. She'd always loved his stories and the way he never treated her as though she was merely a princess and nothing more. Aillith rather admired him. He was small, yes, but clever as well, and though she wasn't deformed as like him, on the inside she'd always felt just as different from the rest of the world.

Aillith sidled up next to him, bringing her horse to an easy trot.

"Did you say your goodbyes?" her uncle asked. She nodded. Up ahead the wayn jounced over the pitted road, her mother and sibling tucked safely inside. The royal banners flew overhead- a golden stag on a field of black.

"Tell me about the Starks," Aillith said. All she'd heard from anyone was that they were loyal friends of the crown, but she needed to know more and if anyone would give her an honest answer it would be her uncle.

"They're people of the north," Tyrion said, shrugging his lopsided shoulders.

"Yes, but what does that mean?"

"It means that they're hard. They prefer cotton to lace, stone over gold." Tyrion looked to his niece and took in her grimace before adding, "But they're good people. I've heard kind things about the boy."

"My betrothed," Aillith sneered. The words made her stomach churl.

"I've heard he's quite handsome, my lady," Alodie chimed in. He could be the most beautiful man in all the Seven Kingdoms and still the princess wouldn't care.

"If he's at all like his father, he'll treat you well," Tyrion said.

"How reassuring." Aillith gripped her reigns, suddenly dizzy. Her uncle patted her arm. She was hardly a woman, despite what her parents believed. She'd never set foot out of King's Landing before and beneath her stony expression Tyrion saw only fear.

"I wish I was like you," the princess declared. "I wish I was deformed. Then no one would want to marry me."

"My lady," Alodie gasped, shocked by the comment. Tyrion simply laughed. It was the first time anyone had wished to be like him.

"You're a princess," he said. "Even if you were only half a princess, they'd wed you off."

"Why are you travelling with us?" Aillith asked.

"I've never been to Winterfell. Besides, I wouldn't miss my niece's wedding."

"How far must we go?"

"Further than I'd like." The King's Road was long and often treacherous. Weeks of hard travel lay ahead of them, only to become harder they further north they went.

Small cottages slipped by on either side of them. Commoners came to their doors and stopped in their fields to watch the royal entourage pass.

"Long live the king!" a farmer shouted from the roadside. He caught Aillith's eye and smiled, his mouth full of holes where teeth ought to have been. "Long live the princess," he cried. She waved back at him.

"They love you," Tyrion said as they left the man behind.

"They don't know me," she replied.

"Well, they don't need to. You're their princess. They've prayed for you from the moment you were born."

It was an odd thought that these strangers had prayed for her. _Winter is coming_, she thought as she inspected the cottages along the road. They hardly looked strong enough to withstand the cold to come. She wondered what it would be like to be that farmer's daughter. No one would have prayed for her then. It didn't seem the peoples' prayers had done much good anyways.

"Eddard Stark could have been king," Aillith stated. She knew her history. Every child in the Westeros knew of the war with the Mad King. The fall of the Targaryens was a distant thing now, yet it still lingered in the minds of all. When she'd been a child, she'd played war games with the stable lads. One of them would pretend to be King Aerys, while the others struck him down with sticks.

"Eddard didn't want to be king," Tyrion said. "And your father, well, he was all too eager to take up the crown."

"Did you see any of the fighting?"

"There's no place for dwarves on a battlefield and I was too young."

"Did you meet Lord Stark though?"

"Once and briefly. At the coronation."

"And?" Aillith pressed.

"Do you want to know what I remember most about him? He didn't treat me any differently than anyone else."

"But you are different." She grinned down at her uncle. "You're smarter than most."

"As are you, little dove."

She frowned. At the moment, she didn't feel smart. If she was, she'd have found a way out of this marriage. She'd have sworn herself to the sisterhood before it'd been too late, but before she could argue with her uncle on the matter a guard approached them.

"Your highness, the queen wishes for you to join her," he announced. Aillith groaned. The last thing she wanted was to be cooped up in the wayn with her mother and Joffery. Yet again she was powerless- always forced to do what she was told and never allowed to do what she wanted. Ride in the wayn. Marry Robb Stark. The list went on and on.

"Enjoy yourself," Tyrion called after her as she trotted forlornly behind the guard. She scowled at him over her shoulder. At the carriage, she dismounted before the guard could step down to aide her. Mud squelched beneath her riding boots. She flung open the wayn door, took one last breath of fresh air and lifted herself inside.

Tommen was fast asleep, his blonde head burrowed in the queen's skirts. Myrcella sat in a corner, intent on her needlework, while Joffery peered sullenly out the window next to her. Aillith took the empty seat by her mother, as far from the queen as the cushioned seat allowed.

"Your hair's a mess," the queen said, by way of a greeting.

"It's windy out there." As though to support her claim, a gust of wind rattled the wayn. "Where's father?"

"Riding at the front." The queen waved her hand dismissively. Tommen stirred in his sleep.

"What are you working on, Myrcella?" Aillith asked. Her sister held up her needlework, a direwolf wreathed in grey roses.

"It's for you," the young girl said. "A wedding present."

"Lovely." Aillith's throat closed around the word. She wanted to rip the damned thing from her sister's hand and tramp it beneath her muddy boots. Instead she smiled.

"The Starks are direwolves," Myrcella recited proudly.

"Wolves eat stags, you know." Joffery pulled his eyes from the window to leer at Aillith. "Wolves are savage. You'll fit right in."

She glared at him, but dared not say anything back with their mother present. Joffery could do no wrong in the queen's eyes. After all, he was heir to the Iron Throne, a fact that had certainly gone to his head over the years. Though Aillith was certain he'd been born rotten. There were times she could hardly believe he was her brother.

"Are you excited about meeting your betrothed?" Myrcella chirped. Aillith glanced at the queen, who observed her closely.

"Of course I am," she lied through a forced smile. She hadn't spoken to her mother since their encounter in the gardens. Her cheek stung from the memory of it.

"You'll be a beautiful bride," Myrcella continued. "I wish you didn't have to stay at Winterfell though. It's so far. We'll never see you."

"A woman's place is with her husband," the queen said. "Isn't that right, Aillith?"

Aillith didn't reply. Instead she looked out the window, unable to smile any longer. Myrcella chattered on, but the princess heard none of it. As she watched the fields became forests. The wayn jolted, shaking all of them inside. _Winterfell_, Aillith thought as she closed her eyes.

She let herself drift back to King's Landing. She could see the dragon skulls from the crypt grinning down at her, their eyes empty and hungry. She could see the ocean stretching out under the sun. Then it all turned to stone and snow. She imagined herself caught between a direwolves' teeth, could hear a wolf howling louder and louder until she opened her eyes again.

_Wolves are savage_, Joffery had said. A chill fell over her. Would her husband be savage? Or would he be kind? Aillith didn't know, but she was certain the question would plague her through their journey.


	5. Chapter 5

"Our truest life is when we are in our dreams awake." -Thoreau

Robb

Robb looked towards the Stark banner flapping in the wind atop the highest tower of Winterfell- a grey direwolf, teeth barred and eyes hard as marble, on a field of white. He took courage from the beast. His own wolf, Grey Wind, was nowhere to be seen. _Out hunting with his brothers and sisters_, Robb assumed. He wished Grey Wind was near though. Whenever the wolf was gone, he felt as though a part of him were missing.

Last night Robb dreamt that he'd drowned. He'd been standing on the frozen surface of the godswood pond when the ice around him cracked. The water had been so cold it'd felt like a thousand daggers tearing at his flesh as the ice knitted over him, the red eyes of the heart tree watching wordless as he died. He'd woken pale and trembling.

It wasn't the first time he'd had the dream. Since his father had told him of the king's intentions, he'd drowned nearly every night. He couldn't so much as close his eyes without the cold of his nightmare creeping into his mind. Maester Luwin would give him a potion to help him sleep, but Robb couldn't bring himself to tell anyone about the dream. _I'm not afraid_, he told himself each night as he lay in bed. _I am a Stark of Winterfell and I am not afraid._

An arrow whistled past his ear, jarring him from his silent contemplation. Robb spun on his heels and caught sight of his bastard brother, the bow in his hands still raised.

"I'm not a target," Robb growled, his cheeks flushed from cold and anger. Jon lowered the bow, his grin widening.

"You may as well be, the way you're standing there like a wooden post," he said.

"I was thinking."

"Thinking?" Jon set the bow at his feet. "About what?"

"Nothing." For once, Robb wasn't interested in sharing his thoughts with Jon. The two had been close from the beginning, even as babes in their swaddling clothes. They'd been boys together, causing mischief wherever they went, and they'd grown into men side by side. It had never mattered that Jon was a bastard. Robb had always considered him a brother all the same, his first brother, long before Bran and Rickon were born. There was little they didn't share. At least until now.

"You looked too serious to have been thinking of nothing," Jon said.

"It's cold." Robb turned from his brother. "I'm going inside." He began to move across the training yard, his head bowed against the wind.

"Winter is coming," Jon called after him. "It's only going to get colder."

Instead of returning to the castle, Robb found himself in the Godswood. It was the only place in Winterfell where he could escape. Ever since his coming marriage had been announced it was all anyone talked about. They were all so excited by the news, save for him. The red eyes of the weir woods bored into him as he knelt before the heart tree.

"I don't want this," he confessed to the old gods. He just couldn't speak of this to Jon. Though he longed for his brother's advice, he knew there was none he could give. After all, bastards didn't wed princesses. Of late, Robb had envied the freedom his bastard brother's birth provided him. He'd give anything to trade places with Jon.

He remembered what his father had told him. "It's a great honor the king bestows upon us." Robb, however, didn't feel very honored. He was too proud to admit it, but all he felt was fear. Day and night he was haunted by the same thoughts. Soon he was to wed the princess, which by all rights would make him a prince, and he worried that he wasn't worthy of the position, worried that his bride-to-be would take one look at him and despise what she saw. Surely in King's Landing she'd grown up surrounded by knights of legend, witnessed their great skill in tourneys and supped with the heroes of Westeros. What was he compared to them? A boy unbloodied and ignorant of the world beyond Winterfell. How could he hope to be a prince? His bride would scorn him.

Everyone expected Robb to be pleased. Anyone else would've been. He wasn't disillusioned by romantic ideals as was his young sister Sansa. He didn't believe the beautiful stories Septa Mordane told of princesses and their knights. He'd never thought to marry for love, yet he'd never thought to marry a princess.

"I don't even know her," he whispered, wondering if the gods heard.

"I didn't know your mother either." At first, Rob though the gods had spoken, but when he turned his head he found only his father. Eddard knelt beside his son before the heart tree.

"How'd you know where I was?" Robb asked.

"Jon told me you seemed upset during practice. I guessed you'd come here. It's where I came when I was told I was to marry your mother." Eddard rested his hand on his son's shoulder. "You need not be ashamed of your fear."

"I'm not afraid," Robb said, too quickly.

"I certainly was in your position." His father smiled at the memory. "Back then I'd rather have faced a thousand armies than become a husband. You know, your mother was promised to my brother. I'd only met her in passing a time or two. We were strangers when we wed and strangers for the first years of our marriage, but we came to love each other."

"Not everyone is so blessed," Robb grumbled.

"True, but not everyone is as kind or wise as you either."

Robb thought of his dream, of the terrors building inside of him. He couldn't keep them back any longer, despite his pride.

"What if she never comes to love me?" he asked. "If I never love her? I don't know how to be a husband or a prince."

"You'll learn. Whether the two of you ever come to love each other is not as important as whether or not you come to respect each other." His father's wise words did little to ease his troubled mind.

"I'm plagued by nightmares," Robb admitted. His father chuckled.

"I dreamt your mother turned to a snark for weeks before we wed. It is normal, my son."

"But you weren't to become a prince."

"Robb, you are no stranger to responsibility. Someday you'll be warden of the north, lord of Winterfell, and you've never balked at those duties. I could not have asked for a stronger son." Eddard gave his son's shoulder a squeeze before rising.

Long after his father had gone, Robb heard his words whispering through the weir woods. _I could not have asked for a stronger son._ Rather than console him, the words only provoked his uncertainty. All his life he'd carried the burden of his birth right, of the expectations placed upon him. Now more than ever he felt that weight and he feared, despite his father's reassurances, that he wasn't strong enough to bear it.

"Please," he begged, bowing before the old gods. "Please give me the strength." Robb received no answer. Instead the heart tree continued to stare at him with those red eyes, watching wordless as he drowned.


	6. Chapter 6

"What others think of us would be of little moment did it not, when known, so deeply tinge what we think of ourselves." -Paul Valery

Aillith

Aillith walked ahead of the caravan. Two weeks they'd travelled and she was tired- tired of riding in the wayn with her mother, tired of the rain that refused to let up and of being constantly surrounded. She'd even grown weary of her uncle Tyrion's company. This was the first moment she'd had to herself since they'd departed the capitol.

The rain had finally lessened. When she was out of sight of the caravan, she slipped off her shoes and continued barefoot. Mud oozed between her toes. Proper princess don't trod barefoot through the mud, her mother would tell her. Proper princesses didn't do anything enjoyable. The longer Aillith was cooped up with her mother, the more she'd started to think that perhaps marrying the young Stark boy wouldn't be so terrible. At least she'd no longer have to suffer the queen's presence.

She lifted her skirts above her knees and stepped through a puddle in the road. It was much colder here already. Her breath escaped her in clouds of white mist that spiraled out into the damp afternoon. Soon someone would come looking for her. She considered running away before they had the chance to drag her back to the wayn. _How far could I get before they found me? What if they never did? Would mother worry?_ Probably not. _Would my betrothed be disappointed?_ She didn't care.

She could slip into the woods and keep going until she reached the sea again. She could sell the jewels she wore and her fine clothed to buy passage on one of the ships she'd used to watch bobbing in the bay, sail to a land of eternal summer far from the Seven Kingdoms. No one would know who she was. She could start again. Educated as she was, she could become a tutor for some wealthy man's children. Or perhaps become a travelling fool. A court jester had once taught her to juggle. Maybe she'd join a troupe of entertainers. _Making others laugh wouldn't be such a terrible way to live. I'd much rather be a fool than a princess._

Then the sound of an approaching rider chased away her fantasies. Aillith heard the even beat of hooves pounding into the dirt. For days and days she'd heard that sound, a constant call of drums boring deeper into her head. For a moment she considered melting away into the woods, but the rider was fast approaching. All her hopes were dashed. _They're just dreams_, she told herself. She'd never act on them, because truthfully she was too frightened. Even if she somehow managed to escape and not be found, then she'd most like die alone in a strange place. After all, she'd spent all her life safe in Maegors Holdfast. A prisoner, but safe. She didn't know the first thing about surviving on her own.

Grudgingly, Aillith slid her muddy feet back into her shoes and turned to face the rider. She expected it to be one of the guards come to fetch her back and was surprised to see her father's black courser. He looked younger than she'd ever seen him, with his black hair tossed by the wind and his eyes bright as sapphires. Travel suited him. Aillith knew her father loathed the courtly charade of the capitol just as much as she did. Being free from the confines of the Red Keep had put him in better humors than she'd thought him capable of.

The king tugged on his reigns, coming to a halt near where his daughter stood. He took in the mud splattered hem of her skirt, her hair blown into knots, and he laughed.

"I'm looking for a princess," he called down to her. "You haven't seen one by chance?"

"No princesses here, your majesty," she said, going alone with the game. Aillith loved her father as she'd never loved her mother. He'd never cared much if her stitches were dainty or that she preferred wrestling with the stable boys to playing the harp. Whenever the queen complained to him about their oldest daughter's latest mischief, he'd laugh and say, "At least one of them has some spirit".

There'd been a day when she was younger when the two of them had gone riding together. Already heavy into his tankard of ale, he'd told her, "I wish you'd been a boy. You'd make a damn better son than Joff". She'd beamed with pride at those words until she'd grown old enough to understand that he hadn't meant to compliment her, rather he'd made it clear that she was, in fact, not a son.

It was the last time they'd gone riding together. Now Aillith's cheer faded as she remembered it'd been her father's decision to give her to the Starks. She was a daughter, after all, and kings could only truly love sons, though she didn't believe he cared much for Joffery either. She looked down at her soiled slippers, unable to meet his jovial gaze any longer as the rage and hurt swelled inside her.

"Lucky the Stark boy isn't here to see you," her father said, as he heaved his weight from the courser. "He'd expect to find a lady and come across a wildling wench instead."

"Good," Aillith snapped. "Maybe he wouldn't wish to marry me then." Her father only laughed again, his ample belly shaking from the force of it.

"Poor boy," he said, shaking his head. "You're not going to be any easier a wife than you are a daughter." He reached out to pat her cheek, but she drew back from the touch, her lips drawn taught and her hands clenched into fists. She knew she ought to hold her tongue, but she'd been doing just that ever since they'd left King's Landing.

"I don't want to be his wife." She kicked at the hard ground with the toe of her boot.

"You'll be the lady of Winterfell someday," the king said. Aillith finally looked at him again through narrowed eyes.

"Damn Winterfell, damn Robb Stark and damn you for making me marry anyone at all!"

The king's smile vanished. Aillith waited for him to cuff her over the head. Never in her life had she spoken to him in such a way. Not only had she cursed her father, but she'd cursed her king and that was treason.

She cast her eyes down again. Her body trembled in the aftermath of her outburst. She flinched when her father's heavy hand settled on her shoulder, but the touch was gentle and so was his voice when he spoke. Never had she heard such tenderness from him.

"If I could, I'd keep you in King's Landing." The words took Aillith by surprise. She peaked up at him through dark lashes.

"Why can't I stay then?" But she knew the answer without needing him to speak it. She was a daughter. It always came down to that. Her father gave her shoulder a squeeze before letting her go.

"Robb Stark will make a good husband," he said. "I could have chosen someone twice your age. Someone cruel even. There are a dozen matches more beneficial to the kingdom. If the high counsel had their way, you'd be shipped off to Highgarden to marry the crippled Willas Tyrell. The gods know he's a better prospect."

"Why am I not to wed him then?" Aillith couldn't find it in herself to be grateful. The wound was still too fresh.

"You're a princess. It's your duty to marry into a prominent family, strengthen their ties to the crown, but you're also my daughter. I do not wish a miserable life for you, Aillith, and the Starks will treat you better than most. Eddard has always been a dear friend of mine. He will be a better father to you than I have been."

Aillith wiped angrily at her teary eyes with her sleeve. Already her father had turned his back on her, having said all he wanted to and more. She watched him mount the black courser. The beast kicked up a cloud of dust as he rode away. She watched him until he was gone from her sight and then began the dreaded march back to the caravan, her head bowed and her mind thick with what her father had said.

_A better father than I have been._ It was the closest he'd ever come to saying he loved her even though she wasn't a son. Still Aillith couldn't forgive him and she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to. Just as he couldn't forgive her for not having been born a boy.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Read, review, enjoy.

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"The great thing in this world is not so much where we are, but in what direction we are moving." -Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.

Aillith

The septon droned on, his voice lost in the northern wind whipping through the cracks in the wall. Aillith doubted the Seven could hear him any better than she could. Outside the sky was grey and the sun was absent as it had been for days. They'd crossed into northern country a week ago and in all that time they'd stumbled across only one inn, a ramshackle house with an underfed horse ripping chunks of dying grass from the yard. The inn keep, a toothless old woman worse made her smile frightening to behold, had been overjoyed to give the royal family shelter for the night. She'd been even more pleased by the payment they offered. Aillith had seen fewer and fewer travelers the further north they'd come.

"You'll come to Winterfell by nightfall," the inn keep had told them over supper the night before, a thick rabbit stew lacking in flavor but ample in much desired warmth. Aillith had shared a musty, straw mattress with her sister. The sheets had been clean enough, but all night she'd heard mice scratching at the walls. It wasn't the vermin that'd kept her awake.

_Winterfell by nightfall_. It didn't seem possible that they were so close. Through the hour of the wolf she'd tried to comfort herself with images of King's Landing and found it difficult to remember the smaller details- the exact shade of blue of her bed linens back home, the view from her chamber window. She feared there'd come a time when she wouldn't be able to remember any of it all no matter how desperately she clutched to it.

She'd crawled out of bed at dawn and slipped on her clothes while the others still slept, untroubled by the concerns that kept her restless. On her way out, she'd kissed Myrcella's smooth brow. Someday her little sister would be where Aillith was now. Her heart ached for the little girl as she'd tip toed down the inn stairs and wandered to the courtyard to greet the day with the dying horse at her side. Not hungry herself, she'd given the poor thing her breakfast, a hunk of bread thick with sweet nuts, and stroked its tangled man as the sun rose. There'd been no way to stop the morning's arrival and Winterfell awaited her by nightfall.

Now Aillith sat between Myrcella and Joffery on an unforgiving, wooden bench in the crowded dining hall. The septon had been going on for nearly an hour.

"May the Father guide you through the dark wilderness ahead." He struggled to be heard over the draft. The septon was older than anyone had a right to be and half blind from a childhood accident. Aillith was surprised he'd made it this far on their journey. She half expected him to fall over, the way his knees knocked together from standing for so long. She doubted he'd stop preaching even if he did fall.

"May the Mother bless the union of our princess and the young Stark." He turned his misty, blind eyes on Aillith. "May She provide them with many healthy children to bind their great houses through the eternal bond of blood."

Joffery sniggered at the words, while Aillith's cheeks flamed. She glared back at the Septon. It was only customary for young women to pray to the Mother before their wedding day, however, the princess had sent her prayers elsewhere that morning as she'd stood in the yard with the dying horse. _Warrior, give me strength_, she'd begged. _Stranger, be kind in revealing the unknown._ What use was the Mother's blessing or the Maiden's gentle touch now?

The old Septon rattled to a merciful conclusion. Aillith was the first to rise, but before she could make her leave of the hall, Joffery's hand caught her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to leave a bruise.

"Don't you want to stay and pray longer to the Mother?" he said. "If I had to marry a Stark, I'd want all the blessings I could get."

"If a Stark had to marry you, then they'd ask the Stranger to slit your bloody throat while you slept," she snapped, trying to wrench free of his hold.

"I'll be your king someday. You'd do best to show more respect."

"You aren't king yet," she reminded him. Then she reared back her slippered foot and slammed it as hard as she could against his shin. As soon as he let go of her arm, doubled over in pain, she'd raced to the door.

_At least I'll be free of him soon_, she thought as she broke out into the noise and clamor of the courtyard where the servants were preparing for their departure. _And hopefully I'll never have to see him again._ She couldn't imagine Joffery ever returning to Winterfell for a brotherly visit.

She couldn't bear another day in the wayn with her brother and mother, especially not if it was to be her last few hours of freedom. Aillith leapt onto her horse and spurred through the inn gates behind the forward procession of guards. _Winterfell by nightfall_. She lifted her face to the dreary, northern sky. The weather matched her mood- winds howling, storm brewing and the sun nothing more than a fading memory from happier times.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: They meet at last. The story will get a bit quicker from here. Read, review, enjoy.

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"He was burned, so he ran into the bamboo grove, but the grove caught fire." -Punjabi proverb

Robb

Winterfell's heavy, iron gate screeched as it rose. Arya clapped her hands over her ears against the sound. She looked as miserable as Robb felt, scowling through the open gateway and scuffing the toe of her shoe against the cobblestones, her frown darkening with each passing second.

"Behave," their mother hissed from where she stood at their father's side. Arya rolled her eyes in response.

"Best do as she says," Robb whispered. "Else she'll make you dress like a proper lady all the time and not just when we have guests."

Lady Catelyn had gone to great lengths to ensure all of her children were presentable for the arrival of the royal family. Robb's new tunic was stiff and scratchy. He pulled at the tight collar, making the silver stitch direwolf across the front of the tunic look as though it were howling when the fabric stretched. Bran and Rickon had been forced into their best attire as well. Rickon, still a babe, had whined all morning. He'd thrown such a tantrum that it'd taken the servants nearly an hour to dress him. Robb wasn't afforded the same luxury, though he longed to kick and scream just as his brother had.

Now Rickon stood at the end of the line, clutching Bran's hand tightly with his chubby fist and sniveling in the cold. Sansa stood beside them, her shoulders thrust back and her auburn hair tumbling in perfect ringlets down the back of her fur-lined, emerald gown. Unlike Arya, who fidgeted at Robb's side, her eyes sparkled with excitement. Theon was grinning as well, though for far different reasons.

"I hope your princess brings along a few pretty maids," he said.

"She isn't my princess," Robb growled in return. "And you'd best stay away from her ladies or father will have you whipped." Theon shrugged at the threat, not cowed by it in the least.

"Capitol girls won't want anything to do with you anyways," Arya said. She had to crane her neck to look Theon in the eyes.

"And why is that, little lady?" Eddard's ward asked.

"You smell," Arya said, her scowl turning into a crooked smile. Theon stepped towards her, but Robb placed a staying hand on his friend's chest and shot his youngest sister a warning glance.

"Not now," he told both of them.

"She should apologize," Theon protested. Arya stuck at her tongue at him. If the king didn't arrive soon, Robb feared war would break out between the two. He doubted he could stand between them for long, not with his own thoughts distracting him. He wished Jon had been allowed to stand with them instead of in back with the rest of the household. He could use his brother's calming presence now more than ever.

"Oh, I see them!" Sansa squealed. "I think that's the king."

"Where?" Bran stood on the tips of his toes and squinted into the distance. "I can't see anything."

"On the speckles palfrey," Sansa said.

"That's not the king," Arya argued.

"How would you know? You've never seen him."

"Neither have you," the little Stark girl fired back.

"Quiet!" Their mother's voice fell over them, sharper than any blade. "We will not welcome our guests with bickering."

"But-" Arya's words withered on her tongue under their mother's stern gaze. Silence fell over their ranks. Robb doubted he could have spoken even if he'd wanted to. His tongue felt like led.

The sound of horns trumpeting grew louder, louder, louder until his head ached. A cluster of guards came through the gate first in a swarm of red and white cloaks. Close behind them was King Robert Baratheon atop a large, black courser, not the spotted palfrey Sansa had pointed out.

There was no mistaking the king. An iron crown circled his dark, unruly head and his cheeks were ruddy from riding fast against the wind. Before his horse reached a full stop, he leapt from the saddle with a grace ill-matched to his girth. He approached Eddard without seeming to notice anyone else.

"You've gotten old," the king boomed.

"And you've grown fat," Eddard Stark said in turn. The king's laughter drowned out all other sound. He pulled his old friend into a crushing embrace.

"I could have your head for that," he said as he pulled away.

"You could try." Eddard smiled. The easiness between the pair made it seem as though not a day had passed since last they'd met though it'd been years since they'd seen each other.

King Robert wasn't the handsome young hero he'd been back then, yet he struck Robb as an impressive figure nonetheless. He carried himself as a man who feared nothing and bowed to no one. He was as different from Robb's father as any man could be, that much was clear.

"And who is this lovely woman before me?" The king turned to Lady Catelyn, grinning from ear to ear as he kissed her hand. "Unlike your husband, you have not aged a day, my lady."

"You're too king, Majesty," Catelyn said.

"Now that's something I don't often hear," the king chuckled. Before more could be said, a wooden carriage drawn by four horses shuddered to a halt in the courtyard. A red-cloaked guard swung open the door and held out his hand to the shadowed figure inside. Theon whistled under his breath as the queen appeared. Her golden curls, though wilted from the journey, gleamed under the winter sun and the delicate silk of her dress hissed against the cobblestones as she stepped daintily to her husband's side. Had it not been for her curdled expression, she'd easily have been the most beautiful women Robb had ever laid eyes upon.

"You remember my wife." The king's dismissive introduction only caused the queen's smile to sour further.

"Your grace," Eddard said with a bow. Cersei Lannister stared at him with haughty, green eyes. She wrapped her cloak tighter about her shoulders.

"I hope your journey went well," Catelyn said.

"As well as can be expected." The queen's cool gaze rolled over the courtyard and all those who stood there. "How do you survive so far from warmth and civilized company?" Her insult, though masked by a polite tone, stung. When Catelyn spoke again her voice was stiffer.

"It takes time to adjust, but I've come to appreciate the peace this place brings."

"As I'm sure we also shall," the queen said. Robb didn't believe her for a second. She looked as though she'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

"Enough woman talk," the king bellowed. "Where are my little brats?" He strode to the wayn and said, "Out you come then."

A boy a few years younger than Robb was the first to poke his blonde head from the carriage. He scrunched his nose as though he smelled something foul in the air. His eyes, as cold and green as his mother's, swept over the Stark children disdainfully until they reached Sansa. He sent her a smile that brought a pleased sigh to her lips, though Robb saw nothing pleasing about the young prince. _He's got a mean look to him_, he thought to himself. _Best keep an eye on him around Sansa._

Next a small boy tumbled out onto the cobblestones. His stubby legs tangled together as he fell. The queen moved towards him, but was stopped when the king's arm circled her waist.

"Leave him be," Robert Baratheon muttered as the little prince rose clumsily to his feet unharmed. His cheeks were as red and round as apples. The plumpness of infancy still hung about his face.

Robb's interest in the princes was short-lived. His eyes fell to the next of the royal children emerging from the wayn and his heart sputtered as a girl appeared before them. She was just as blonde as her brothers. He noticed that her eyes, though timidly downcast, were a shade softer than her mother's.

_She's a child_, Robb thought, horrified. _Surely they don't expect me to marry her!_ The princess couldn't be any older than Arya. She looked so fragile, shivering in the cold, her delicate lips trembling as she smiled.

Robb Stark looked to the wayn, hoping that someone else would climb out. He'd begun to despair when something stirred in the shadows. Another girl hopped down into the courtyard, older than the one before. Her head was bowed, her face hidden by a tumble of dark hair that made her stand out from the others. Robb couldn't make out any of her features. _She doesn't want to look at me. Or she doesn't want to be seen by me._ The stones seemed to shift beneath his feet. The breakfast he now regretted eating churned in his stomach.

"My royal clutch of brats," the king said. "Joffery, Tommen, Myrcella and…" Robb knew the name before the king spoke it. It was a name that had haunted him for weeks. "Aillith," Robert Baratheon finished.

Aillith Baratheon looked up at the sound of her name. Her dark hair parted, allowing Robb to gaze upon his bride-to-be for the first time. She certainly wasn't a snark and she wasn't a child, but she also wasn't the beauty he'd heard so much about. Her nose was slightly too round and her cheeks dusted with freckles. Her lips, full and pale, were set at an odd tilt, though it could have just been caused by her expression. And her eyes. They were wider than any Robb had ever seen and such a stormy shade of blue-grey. Perfectly unreadable. They gave no hint of what she was thinking.

The sight of her after so many weeks of wondering didn't relieve any of Robb's fears. As he looked at her, it struck him harder than ever before that he didn't know a thing about her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all," Eddard said. He turned to the dark-haired princess. "Lady Aillith, we're honored to finally meet you."

The girl curtsied, losing her balance in the process. She nearly fell, but managed to recover just as Robb reached for her. As his hand brushed her arm, she drew back as though his touch burned and he let his hands fall limp at his sides, as heavy as two stones. _Already she hates me._ The two of them stood in silence until a glance from his mother made Robb open his mouth to speak. He fumbled for the proper words.

"I'm glad you made it safely, my lady," he said in one swift breath. The princess kept her eyes fixed on the ground.

"Thank you," she said, her voice as hollow as her eyes. "It pleases me to meet you at last, my lord. I have long awaited the day." Her words rang rehearsed. Silence choked them once more. Robb was grateful when his father spoke.

"Come," Eddard said. "Let us move out of the chill. We've prepared a feast to welcome to you, but first you must rest. You've had quite a long journey."

"And there's much we need discuss," the king added, clapping his old friend on the back. He glanced at his wife and said, "In private".

The Stark children parted for the royal family. Robb and Theon fell into step behind the princesses.

"At least she's not disfigured," Theon said quietly. Robb wasn't consoled. He watched his bride-to-be stumble again on the uneven stones. This time he didn't bother trying to aide her. The memory of how she'd recoiled from his previous touch still stung his pride.

As they climbed the front steps of the castle, the dark haired princess looked back at them. In the brief moment before she turned away again, Robb thought he caught a hint of something in those blue-grey eyes. Fear perhaps. Or the loathing he'd feared. Before he could be certain, she'd turned her back on him once more.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Read, review, enjoy. Tomorrow the wedding chapter will be posted.

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"A home is not a mere transient shelter: its essence lies in the personalities of the people who live in it." -H.L. Mencken

Aillith

While her chambers were warm, Aillith still felt the chill of their travels deep in her bones. She took in her quarters, her new home, and found it was nothing like her old room. Everything appeared grey. Even the sun was paler here than the one she was accustomed to. It was as though all color had been stripped from the world. She paced back and forth across the thick, worn rug over the stone floor. She ran her hands over the smooth, dark wood of her wardrobe. The furniture was more simple than what she was used to, all of it sturdy oak with little embellishment. The clean, un-slept in bed linens were a deep burgundy, soft to the touch.

Aillith crawled up onto the large, canopied bed and drew the thick drapes around her. No light shone through them. She was swaddled in darkness, alone with her thoughts. The princess fell back into the feather pillows and tried to pretend she was back in the capitol, in her own room, but the bed was all wrong. It was firmer than the one she knew. The sheets smelled foreign as she buried her face in them. She held in the hot tears pricking her eyes. _I will not cry here_, she told herself.

Unbidden thoughts of her betrothed swelled in her mind. He was handsome, that much couldn't be denied. She remembered what her Uncle Tyrion had told her about the northmen. _They're hard. They prefer cotton to lace, stone over gold._ That's what she'd seen in Robb Stark's eyes, stone. All through her journey she'd imagined what he looked like and now she knew- dark curls, a firm jaw honed sharp, grey eyes. She remembered the way his hand had grazed her arm. Aillith hadn't meant to recoil, but his touch had startled her. _I must get used to. I'll be his to touch soon enough._ It was a sickening thought.

She clawed at the curtains, feeling smothered by the darkness now, and leapt from the strange bed. She didn't want to think about Robb Stark's touch. There was an hour yet before she'd need to prepare for the feast, so she donned her cloak once more and left her new chambers. Somehow she managed to maneuver the unfamiliar corridors of Winterfell, each step echoing as she moved. After a few wrong turns she found herself out in the open once more.

The courtyard was in chaos as servants bustled back and forth bearing the royal family's trunks into the castle. As Aillith scanned the yard, she realized she recognized no one. Her family would still be inside, warming themselves by their fires. She considered finding her uncle Tyrion for a moment and then decided against it. She couldn't go back inside yet. The emptiness and echoes of the old castle made her uneasy, but the crisp air outside helped clear her head as she wandered through a sea of strangers.

Each person she passed paused in their duties to bow at her. She felt their curious eyes burning through her layers of wool and silk. Aillith was used to being watched wherever she went, but now all she wanted was to be invisible.

She made her way to the stables, thinking to spend a few quite minutes with her horse, when a sound caught her attention and drew her behind the great, wooden building instead. There she found two children rolling around in the much.

"Get off me," a boy cried. He was pinned to the ground by the other child. Aillith assumed they were both boys until the other one spoke.

"Not till you apologize." The voice was unmistakably a girl's. While her face was covered in mud, the princess recognized her eyes. _Grey like her brother's._ It was the younger Stark girl. _Arya_, the princess remembered. _Her name is Arya._

Arya straddled the boy, beating her fists against his head as he struggled to throw her off. Despite her foul mood, Aillith was amused by the scene. It reminded her of how she and Joffery had been at that age.

"Help me," the boy cried, his eyes landing on Aillith. Blood dripped from his nose. The princess decided it was time to intervene. She stepped forward and grabbed the back of the Stark girl's dress. It took all her strength to pull the two apart. Arya swing her legs and arms, trying to get at the boy as he stood.

"She's mad," he stammered, stumbling away. Aillith held onto the girl until he was safely around the stables. When she let Arya go, the girl spun on her heels, her eyes burning, and swung out her arm to strike. The blow fell short as she realized who it was she meant to hit. Still she didn't bow as the others did. Instead she crossed her arms and glared up at the princess.

"Why'd you get in the way?" she demanded. Aillith was rarely addressed in such a manner. She couldn't help but laugh, which only made the girl's eyes narrow further.

"You looked about to kill him," the princess said. "What'd he do to deserve such treatment?"

"Called me ugly. _Arya Horseface_," she spat. "That's what Sansa calls me. I can't hit her, but him I can."

"It's not a very nice name," Aillith said. She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it out to the girl. "You've got a bit of blood on your cheek. Take it."

Arya looked at the handkerchief suspiciously before swiping at her cheek with the back of her hand, which only served to leave a streak of dirt behind.

"Are you going to tell my mother I was fighting?" she asked.

"No. I think the boy got what he deserved."

The girl studied Aillith intently with those grey, Stark eyes. "Sansa's told me all about princesses," she said.

"What has she told you?"

"That they're all sweet and beautiful."

Aillith laughed again and said, "My sister's that way, but I think I'm more like you. Trust me, when I was your age I pummeled my fair share of kitchen brats. They used to call me Pug."

"Why?" Arya asked. Aillith tapped her nose. It's been Joffery who'd started the nickname and she'd hated it, but the story brought a tentative smile to the Stark girl's lips.

"You're going to marry my brother," she stated. The princess nodded in response. The reminder was like a stab to the heart. _I will not cry here_. "Do you want to marry him?"

"No," Aillith admitted. She couldn't bring herself to lie to the girl, not with those grey eyes cutting her to the quick. Arya seemed to appreciate the honesty. She let her arms fall to her sides.

"Why not?" she asked.

"I don't know him."

"Well, I don't think he wants to marry you either."

"I'm sure he doesn't." Aillith moved closer to her and leaned against the sturdy stable wall. She hadn't given much thought to how Robb Stark must feel about all of this. _Of course he doesn't want to marry me. He probably expected a sweet and beautiful princess. Instead he gets a pug._

Aillith looked up at the pale, grey sky. It'd be dark soon. She heaved a sigh and brought her eyes back down to the Stark girl, whose dress was torn and muddy.

"Come," she said. "We should prepare for this feast. I doubt your mother would be happy if you showed up like this."

"I hate feasts," Arya grumbled. "They're boring. It's just a bunch of old people talking about stupid things." But when Aillith began walking back to the castle, the girl fell into step beside her. From the corner of her eye, the princess caught Arya glancing at her from time to time, still somewhat distrusting. When they were within the castle walls again, the little Stark girl paused before they parted ways.

"You swear you won't tell my mother?" she asked.

"You have my word."

Arya nodded before skittering off into the shadows, leaving Aillith alone once more. What she wouldn't give to be a child again, even if it meant being called Pug.

It was much easier for Aillith to find her rooms this time around. Still she walked slowly, in no hurry to be poked, prodded and prepared for the long ordeal ahead. She could agree with Arya more. Feasts were long and dull, but perhaps they'd be seated near each other.

Aillith didn't know how she felt about her husband to be just yet, but there was at least one Stark she thought she could come to be fond of.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Well, I was determined to post the chapters I already have written in a steady fashion. Alas I am too impatient for that. So I'm going to go ahead and post everything tonight. Read, review, enjoy.

* * *

"Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echos are truly endless." -Mother Theresa

Jon

Robert Baratheon's laughter filled the hall like thunder, growing louder with each cup of fine arbor gold. Jon inspected the nobles at the high table from his own seat at the very end of the hall. He noticed the queen pushing her uneaten food around her face, while beside her Lady Catelyn struggled to keep up the gracious smile of a host. Sansa giggled into her hands at something Prince Joffery whispered into her ear, and beside them Arya caught Jon's eye and pretended to gag. Bran and the little, blonde princess had fallen asleep early on and been taken up to bed.

Jon Snow swilled down the rest of his wine, a deep red heavy with spices that lingered on his tongue. He'd drunk more tonight than he ever had before. He tugged at his collar as warmth from the drink crept up his neck and into his face. All around him were smiling faces. Robb and his betrothed, however, looked positively miserable. Jon had never pitied his brother until now. All his life he'd been jealous of Robb, of the fact that someday his brother would inherit Winterfell and Jon himself would be lucky to get anything at all. Yet as he watched his brother at the high table, all he felt was relief. Though Robb hadn't spoken of his approaching marriage, the fear in his eyes hadn't escaped Jon's notice.

He was so focused on his brother that he didn't notice the empty seat beside him had been filled until the late comer spoke.

"A toast to the happy couple."

Jon looked away from the high table to the sound of the voice and was shocked to find the queen's brother holding up his goblet. _The Imp_, he thought. That's what he'd overheard the servants calling the little man. Jon knew better than to address him as such. Dwarf or not, Tyrion Lannister was the queen's own kin. He didn't wait for Jon to return the toast before downing the remaining contents of his glass and quickly beckoning for a refill.

"Happy," the dwarf chuckled. "I don't think I've seen a more miserable pair actually."

"It's an honor to have the princess at Winterfell." Even as the words left him, Jon realized they weren't his own. It's what he was expected to say. The dwarf grinned up at him, his mismatched eyes sparkling from the drink and something else that Jon couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Tell that to your brother," the little man said.

"I don't need to." Jon came to his brother's defense, an act as natural as breathing to him. Tyrion Lannister took another sip. He wiped the lingering red stain from his lips, all the while inspecting Jon shrewdly.

"I meant no offense. I don't doubt your brother's honor. He's a Stark, isn't he? I'm more interested in you, Jon _Snow_. Would you like to be the one marrying our sweet princess?"

"No." The wine made Jon too honest.

"Not pretty enough for a bastard?" the Imp asked.

"No. I mean she's…she's lovely." Though to be true, she wasn't. He'd seen far prettier maids in the village. The princess was plain. There was no other word for it. Her misery made her all the plainer.

"I just wouldn't want to wed a stranger, is all," Jon said.

"I suspect she feels the same way. I have eyes, Snow, even if they're not pretty to look upon. My niece is no beauty, true, she's much more than that." The Imp looked to his niece. His over-sized brow wrinkled in something that Jon thought might be concern. Or perhaps pity. "Tell me something, bastard, will your brother be good to her?"

"Of course." Whatever Robb's personal feelings, Jon knew his brother well enough to be confident in his answer.

"Good," the Imp said. "She deserves that much and more." He drained his cup again, snapped his fingers and it was overflowing once more. _For such a small man, he certainly holds his drink better than me. _

"You care for her?" Jon asked. He had a gift for reading people and it was apparent how the Imp felt about his niece.

"Very much. Of all my dear sister's brats, Aillith is the only one worth anything. Myrcella and Tommen, well, they're too young yet to show much promise, As for Joffery, he's an entitled fool."

"And Princess Aillith?"

"Headstrong, wild, clever." The Imp listed her traits off on his stunted, ringed fingers. "She's more than a match for your Robb. Poor lad doesn't know what he's getting into."

"It's not as though he has much choice," Jon said.

"Neither of them have much choice. You, however, the possibilities are endless for a bastard."

Jon scowled at the comment. He didn't enjoy being reminded of his base birth. He ground his teeth together. Had it not been for the wine, he'd have let word "bastard" slip. He was used to being called that. As it was though, he seemed to have lost all control of his tongue.

"And what of imps?" he snapped.

"Have I struck a nerve?" Tyrion Lannister asked, his voice light. "You're too easily offended, Snow. You ought to wear your illegitimacy as armor."

"What would you know if it?"

"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes." Tyrion plucked a grape from the platter in front of them and rolled the fruit between his fingers. "I've learned to use my _stature_, shall we say, as a weapon. It's a cruel world, not just for the likes of us, and a man has need of all the defenses he can muster. What is it you Starks say?" He popped the grape into his mouth. "Ah yes, winter is coming. Someday your brother will be lord of Winterfell. All eyes will be on him, but you and I may move more freely. If you ask me, that's a blessing, not a curse."

Jon had never thought of it that way before, but he had a difficult time accepting the little man's wisdom. He just couldn't see how being a bastard was a gift. _A joke of the gods, maybe, but never a blessing._ Before he could say as much to the Imp, the king rose and silence swept through the hall.

"Good people of the north," the king bellowed, his words slurred. He turned to Jon's father and lifted his cup. Wine spilled over the brim, splattering the queen's fine dress. "My dear friend Eddard, thank you for your hospitality. The wine is sweet and the women sweeter!" He winked at one of the serving girls. Beside him the queen scowled as she patted the wine stains on her gown.

"Idiot," Tyrion muttered into his goblet.

"He's the king," Jon said, aghast.

"Most kings are idiots." The Imp popped another grape into his lopsided mouth as Robert Baratheon continued.

"Tonight we celebrate the happiest of news. My daughter's engagement to your own Robb Stark."

A cheer whipped through the hall as everyone lifted their cups and cried out, "Long live the princess. Long live Robb Stark!" Jon stole another glance at his brother. Robb looked sick if anything else. He couldn't bring himself to cheer with the rest, his brother's distress weighing heavily upon him, and he noticed that Tyrion Lannister also remained silent.

"But there's more cause for celebration," the king said. "Though Jon Arryn's passing grieves me more than words can express, I'm pleased to announce that Lord Eddard will be taking his place as my own right hand."

Titters broke out across the room. Jon wasn't surprised though. Robb had told him of the king's intentions. This time as another cheer sounded for his father, Jon joined in. The king beamed down at his old friend.

"I couldn't ask for a better man to take the job. Not that I asked him of course! So let us drink to these good tidings." The king's speech ended as soon as it'd begun. Conversation returned to the hall. The noise made Jon dizzy.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, already rising. "I think I need some air." Tyrion Lannister nodded, his interest in Jon already replaced by a fresh cup of Highgarden's finest.

The clamor of the feast followed Jon through the deserted corridors as he hurried up the north tower steps. Outside the cold air cut straight through him and he found himself unable to retain the contents of his stomach. He leaned over the battlements and wretched red. It looked like blood splattering down the stone. After he'd finished, he hung limp over the side of the wall, his thoughts drifting to Robb yet again.

More than anything he wished there was something he could to make his brother smile again. He wished they were boys again, striking each other with wooden swords in the yard, but those days were long gone. The gap between them was growing and though Jon had always known this time would come, the pain was bitter.

"He's wrong," Jon muttered to himself, thinking of what the Imp had told him about the blessing of being a bastard.

"Who's wrong?"

Jon startled at the voice. He spun around, the world spinning with him. His vision grew hazy and he braced himself for the fall he knew would come, but never did. Slender fingers curled around his arm instead, steadying him. Once his sight cleared, he found himself face to face with the princess, her hand on his arm and concern etched upon her brow.

"Do you need to sit?" she asked. Jon hadn't been able to hear her speak in the courtyard. Her voice had been far too soft, but now he noticed a musical lilt to it. Perhaps she wasn't a beauty like a mother, but her voice was lovelier than any singer's song. _Or perhaps it's just the wine._

"No, my lady. I'm fine," he said. They stood in silence for some time. Jon had never met a princess before and he certainly hadn't expected to while throwing up over the side of the tower. He hadn't a clue what to say to her.

She seemed to realize that her hand was still on his arm and let go before joining him at the edge of the wall. Her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight. _Pretty eyes_, he thought. She looked down at the long drop below.

"You didn't answer my question," she said.

"Pardon?"

"About who was wrong."

"No one, my lady." Making sure to keep an appropriate distance between them, Jon folded his arms against the battlements. The stone was mercifully cool. He hoped she hadn't noticed the red stains of his vomit below.

"You're Jon Snow, aren't you? My betrothed's brother?" A frown tugged at the corner of her lips as she said "betrothed".

"I am, my lady."

"You don't have to call me that. I'm to be your sister after all." The princess smiled at him. A timid smile.

"I'm a bastard, my lady." A fact the Imp had recently reminded him of.

"So?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. The movement made her dark hair spill over her shoulders.

"So it means I must call you my lady, my lady." To Jon's surprise, the princess laughed. It sounded like silver bells chiming in the cold. _A pretty laugh too._ He suddenly wondered how he could ever have thought her plain.

"Well, I'm your princess," she said. "And as such I command you to stop calling me that."

"What you like me to call you then?"

"Aillith." A breeze stirred her hair, dark as shadows, and she shivered.

"It's cold, my…Aillith." Jon moved to untie his cloak, but she held out her hands to stop him.

"It's been cold most of the way here. I'm growing used to it."

He removed his cloak anyways and held it out to her.

"You'll catch a chill," he said, as he helped her wrap it around her shoulders. The fabric swallowed her, the hem pooling at her feet like a puddle of the blackest rain. She almost looked a child, except for the sorrow in her eyes. _Very pretty eyes_, he thought, knowing that he probably shouldn't.

The princess turned her gaze back to the darkness before them, out past the courtyard and into the wild thickets of the Wolfswood beyond.

"Are you close to your brother?" she asked, her smile gone.

"We grew up together, my…Aillith."

"And do you love him?"

"Yes."

"Do you think he'll make a good husband. She hurried on before he had the chance to give the same answer he'd given her uncle. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that."

Jon watched her clench and unclench her fists.

"I meant to ask it though," she said. "I saw you leave the hall and I thought…I don't know what I thought."

The princess moved back from the edge, her cheeks red from more than just the cold. She unwound Jon's cloak.

"It was foolish to follow you, to ask you…My apologies." As she passed the cloak back to him, their hands brushed together.

"You need not apologize to me," Jon said softly. He couldn't help but pity her. The Imp's words surfaced from the drunken depths of his mind. _Neither of them have much choice._ "And for all it's worth, I think my brother will make a fine husband."

The princess nodded. He watched her scurry back into the moonless black, towards the tower entrance where she paused and without looking at him murmured, "Thank you", before disappearing into the castle once more.

Jon remained for some time, reliving his first interaction with a princess. A single thought kept coming back to him. _Such pretty eyes._


	11. Chapter 11

"I believe the future is only the past again, entered through another gate." -Arthur Wing Pinero

Robb

Rain spattered the mossy, forest floor of the Wolfswood. It wasn't ideal weather for a hunt, but Robb was glad to be free from Winterfell all the same. He crouched down for better look at the deer track in the mud.

"We're close," he announced.

"Not bloody close enough," Theon grumbled. He'd been in a foul mood since they'd left the castle two days past. If he'd had his way, he'd still be at Winterfell chasing after the royal serving girls. Instead he was here in the wet woods with Robb and Jon his only company.

"The hunt is tradition," Robb's father had told him before the boys had departed. "For hundreds of years, Stark men have gone out in the days before their wedding to bring back a gift for their brides."

Having been allowed to choose two men to join him, Robb regretted his decision to bring Theon. The young ward had complained ceaselessly, about the cold and the rain and the discomfort of sleeping on piles of soggy leaves instead of his own soft, feather bed back home. Still Robb had learned long ago to ignore Theon when he was in such a mood, and now he had his own silent complaints to deal with.

Tonight they'd return to the castle. Tomorrow he'd be wed. Robb would have been content to remain in the Wolfswood forever though. More than once he'd thought about what would happen if Theon and Jon returned without him. How long would the princess wait for him? _ How long would they make her wait?_

Aside from a few uncomfortable attempts at the welcoming feast, he hadn't had much time to talk to the princess. He'd left on his hunt the following morning. She'd seen him off, along with the rest of her family and his own, and though she'd wished him well the sentiment had been too formal for him to believe she meant it. _She probably hopes I'm impaled by a boar_, he'd thought more than once.

The three young men continued their trek through the forest, Theon lamenting all the way and likely chasing off all the game with his loud complaints.

"It's a stupid tradition if you ask me," Theon said, as they beat their way through the thick underbrush. "You should be spending you last days as a free man in Ros' bed instead of out here."

"Don't you mean you should be in Ros' bed," Jon said.

"I'd be willing to share this once. Our dear prince Robb won't have another chance to sample her delights once he's wed."

"He's sampled them before," Jon chuckled. "Everyone had."

"Not you, virgin Lord Snow."

Jon flushed. He lunged at Theon and the two fell in a heap on the forest floor, wrestling like children.

"Hush," Robb said, bringing a halt to their antics. "Listen.

"What is it?" Theon asked, his arm wrapped around Jon's throat still.

"Just listen." For a moment there was only bird song. Then Robb heard it again, a soft whisper of stirring branches beyond. Their prey was near. He lifted his bow, the forest slipping away as he peered into the mist. Something moved in the shadows. Robb braced himself as the creature stepped out from the thickets. On the ground at his feet, Theon muttered a curse.

Standing before them was the largest stag the boys had ever seen. It was three times the size of a grown man, its big, black eyes staring back at them unafraid. It seemed unconcerned by the weapon in Robb's hands. For three days the beast had eluded them and now it stood not ten feet away. Even has he knocked an arrow, the stag remained.

Robb hesitated. A cold breeze kissed the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. He'd hunted these woods countless times, but never had he known his pretty to stand so still. _As though it wants me to kill it._ He looked into those black eyes and couldn't help but be reminded of his bride-to-be. _Cold and empty._

"Do it now," Jon whispered, having risen to his feet. Yet Robb couldn't bring himself to release his arrow. Rain dripped into his eyes as he stared at the stag and it stared back. It truly was a magnificent creature. A fine wedding gift for a princess, but he just couldn't kill it. He'd never had any qualms with bringing down a deer. It was the natural order of things. Kill or be killed. Hunt or starve. On this day, however, he felt an odd blend of sympathy and respect for his prey. To him the stag seemed an omen, whether good or ill he wasn't sure yet.

Then an arrow shattered the eerie calm around them. As it pierced the stag's skull, Robb cried out as though his own flesh had been struck. He watched, horrified, as the beast fell with a heavy, wet thump that shook the ground where they stood.

"A perfect shot!" Theon boasted. Robb rounded him furiously.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why!" Theon's proud grin slipped away, replaced by a scowl. Jon touched Robb's shoulder, his face etched with concern.

"Robb?" he asked, confusion clear in his eyes.

Robb turned his back on both of them. He approached the stag carefully and knelt before it. The beast yet lived, though not for much longer. Robb put his hand on the creature's shaggy head, between its twisted antlers. Blood seeped between his fingers, the dark red of a twilight sky. He felt the beast's ragged breaths strike his skin. Hot beads of rain splattered his arm. _Not rain_, he thought, realizing that that it was the warmth of his own tears he felt. He could hear Theon and Jon murmuring behind him, but cared not about what they said.

He sat with the stag until it took its final breath, a deep shudder rolling through is massive body and into Robb's own. He felt the beast die under his touch and while he couldn't explain it to himself, doom overpowered him. The wind blew harder, as if the old gods were cursing him for what had just happened. He felt his bastard brother's presence behind him without needing to look.

"We should not have killed it," Robb said, stroking the animal's bloodied fur. Already warmth was fast leaving the stag's body.

"It's just a stag," Jon said, crouching beside his brother. Robb looked at him through red-rimmed eyes. He didn't know how to explain the way he felt. To Jon and Theon, it was just a stag. To him it was a dreaded future. Once more Jon touched his shoulder and this time he didn't pull away. Minutes passed before Robb regained himself. He wiped at his tears angrily as he rose. Without looking at his two companions, he said, "Leave it here".

Two days ago he'd set out to find a gift for his bride, but as he turned from the stag it seemed the beast was more a curse than a gift. Without speaking another word, he began moving through the tangled thickets. The wind tore at his clothes. The howling of the old gods ripping through the trees, louder with each step he took, blowing him back to Winterfell and the ill-fated marriage that awaited him there.


	12. Chapter 12

"The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart." -Saint Jerome.

Aillith

Aillith knelt on the merciless, stone floor of Winterfell's sept.. As the moon had begun its journey across the sky, the young princess had been led to this holy place by Lady Catelyn and the queen to pray, as was tradition for noble brides. Though she hadn't seen her betrothed since he'd returned from his hunt, she knew he'd been taken to the godswood by his father and her own to say his own prayers. As she looked at the worn face of the Mother, Aillith gleaned little comfort. What advice could a speechless statue give her? She wondered if the Stark's strange gods had any more to say to her husband-to-be or if they were just as silent as the Seven.

Candlelight flickered across the statues of the gods, giving them each menacing grimaces. She wasn't sure how long she'd been kneeling. Her knees were rubbed raw by the stone and her back ached something fierce. No one had told her how long she must stay in the sept, how long she must bow before these cruel gods who cared little for her.

Two days they'd been in Winterfell. In that time she'd had little opportunity to explore her new home. From morning till night, she'd suffered the endless presence of her mother and Lady Catelyn as they planned the wedding. Lords had arrived from all reaches of the north. In between the dress fittings and feat preparations, Aillith had been expected to greet each and every one of them; the rowdy Greatjon Umber and his son the Smalljon, Rickard Karstark, the odd bear of a woman Lady Maege Mormont, Galbert Glover and his younger brother Robett, the icy eyed Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort and dozens more. She'd greeted them all with smiles, acting the gracious princess, but in her heart she felt lost and alone, surrounded by these strangers who'd someday be her own bannermen.

Aillith had never been more exhausted in her life. She yawned through her feeble prayers, longing for the bed that awaited her. Through the window she could see the moon high in the sky. _It must be late_, she thought. Her knees creaked as she stood. As she made her way to the door, blood began to flow through her cramped legs once more and the pain it caused made her limp all the way across the sept.

With all the visiting lords, Aillith hadn't been short for company, yet she hadn't spoken more than a handful of words to anyone in the past three days. Alodie had been kept busy with the wedding. Little Arya had been careful to stay far from her mother, who always seemed to be at Aillith's side. Jon Snow had gone hunting with his brother and even her Uncle Tyrion had abandoned her, preferring the dusty tomes of Winterfell's library to "the hens" as he'd dubbed Lady Catelyn and the queen. _I'm alone_. _A stranger in a strange place._

Aillith was grateful when she found the hens weren't waiting for her outside of the sept.. Instead she was greeted by her Uncle Jamie standing guard at the entrance, his sword balanced between his feet.

"Did the Seven answer your prayers?" he asked.

"No."

"They rarely do," he said with a shrug. "I'm to take you back to your chambers. Queen's orders. You know, I think she fears you might try to flee."

Aillith didn't deny her mother's suspicion. It wasn't as though the thought hadn't crossed her mind a thousand times since they'd left King's Landing. Despite her loneliness, she wasn't in the mood for her uncle's company tonight.

"I think I can find my rooms on my own," she said. Jamie raised an eyebrow. The hint of a teasing grin appeared at the corner of his lips.

"So you do plan to run?"

"Where would I go?" Aillith said. She didn't know these lands. More likely than not, she'd freeze to death by morning if she fled.

"Where would you like to go?" her uncle asked. She pondered the question. Where? King's Landing came to her first, but even there she hadn't been truly happy. Across the sea perhaps. Then she quickly realized that going there would only leave her in an even stranger place than the one she found herself in now.

"I don't know," she finally admitted. There didn't seem to be anywhere she could go. Her uncle sheathed his sword.

"You should go to bed then," he said. "Tomorrow will be long." He ruffled her hair in a rare display of affection, before turning on his heels and heading in the opposite direction. She waited for him to round the corner. Then began her own walk.

To reach her chambers she had to cut across the deserted courtyard. Above her there wasn't a single star to be seen. _Even those have left me._ Another yawn overcame her as she recalled her uncle's words. Tomorrow would be long indeed. Though practically asleep on her feet, Aillith feared she wouldn't rest well this night. How could she when thoughts of her wedding refused to leave her be? In a few hours she'd be a woman wed, a thought that made her so sick she had to stop where she was and wait for her stomach to settle. She closed her eyes and focused on the breath trickling in and out of her lungs.

When she opened them again the sight before her sent her sprawling backwards. A wolf crouched not three feet away, its eyes glowing like hot, angry embers in the dark. As she stepped back her heel caught on a rock and she fell hard to the ground. The beast stalked towards her. Aillith was too frightened to move as it stood over her, one paw at either side of her face. A desperate cry for help caught in her throat.

The wolf lowered its head, sniffing at her hair. Its warm breath was suffocating. She waited for the beast to clasp those sharp teeth about her neck, bracing herself for the pain to come. Instead, the wolf licked her from to chin to forehead.

"Grey Wind!" a voice called out from the dark. The wolf raced to the sound. Aillith watched it trot to a man in the courtyard. It took her a moment to recognize him, but as he rubbed the wolf's head a shred of moonlight broke through the clouds and she saw his face.

"He won't hurt you," Robb Stark said. He crossed the distance between them, the wolf close at his heels, and held out his hand. More wary of her betrothed than the beast at his side, Aillith ignored his offer and rose on her own. She bunched her hands into the folds of her skirt, noticing as she did so a tear in the fabric. _Mother won't be happy. Then again she never is._

The young couple hadn't had a moment alone together since the royal party's arrival. This wasn't exactly how Aillith had imagined their first moment on their own would be. She supposed he was on his way back from the godswood.

"Grey Wind?" she said, hating herself for how timid she sounded. The wolf had returned to sniffing at her. She stood firm though her instincts urged her to run as far as she could.

"That's his name," Robb explained. "He's a direwolf. We all have one."

"I didn't know all northern lords kept them," Aillith said. Apparently there was much she didn't know. Such as why her betrothed was laughing.

"They don't," he said. "By us, I mean all us Starks. Well, me and my siblings. We found them in the woods. No one's seen direwolves in years. I thought they were just legend like the snarks in Old Nana's stories."

"Snarks?"

"They're…well they're not important." Robb shuffled his feet. It struck her in that moment that he might feel just as uncomfortable as she did.

"Sorry if he scared you," her betrothed said.

"I was just startled." Aillith didn't want him to think her weak, but she hadn't meant for her words to be so cold either. The wolf darted past his master towards the woods. She expected Robb to call the beast back and when he didn't she asked, "Shouldn't you fetch him?"

"He's only going for a hunt," Robb said. The princess almost asked what it was the beast hunted, but decided she might not want to know the answer. After all, she knew nothing about these northerners. Joffery had said they were savage. _Perhaps they let their wolves go out and feast on children in the night._ Suddenly she wished she'd let her uncle escort her to her chambers. His sword would have made her feel much safer just then.

"Well," she said after another minute of uneasy silence. "I best be getting to bed."

"Would you like me to walk with you?" Aillith might have considered his offer kind had she not been able to see in his face his hope she'd refuse.

"I can manage." Again her words were too stiff. "But thank you, my lord," she added.

"Then I suppose I'll see you tomorrow."

Aillith scurried around him, and then paused. Before she could stop herself the words that had been burning inside of her spilled out into the cold night.

"I don't want to marry you," she blurted. She wanted him to know the truth. It was only fair that he did. And more than that, a part of her hoped he might console her, that he might say something to change her mind.

"I don't want to marry you either," her betrothed said. Then he was gone. Aillith stood frozen in the courtyard, surprised to find the word stung. He'd only spoken what she'd suspected all along, yet still she felt tears burning behind her eyes. _I will no cry here_, she reminded herself. The tears came regardless. It was all too much. It seemed just yesterday she'd been standing at the docks waiting for the rain and now she was here, tied to a man who did not want her. _Alone. From now on I am alone._


	13. Chapter 13

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." -Shakespeare

Cersei

The wedding was to take place in the godswood, much to the queen's disliking, but when she'd protested Robert had grunted a few word about northern tradition. _Damn tradition_, she thought as the chill of morning bit through her clothes. _Damn the Starks._ Her dislike of the Starks was one thing she and her daughter could agree of, though their reasons differed. Ned Stark had always struck her as weak. His honor would be the death of him someday, she only hoped that day wasn't far in coming. While she loathed the thought that he'd soon be joining them at court, she couldn't deny it was a relief to have Jon Arryn gone.

"He knows too much," she'd complained to Jamie shortly before the hand's death. It'd been one of the rare moments alone she'd had with her brother. Their journey to Winterfell had brought unexpected benefits in that her husband, busy making plans with his old friend, hadn't noticed her absences over the past few days. Lying with Jamie the night before, she'd almost wished they could remain here despite the discomforts of the bitter north. Robert didn't pay much attention to her even in the capitol, but there were other eyes she must be wary of. Men like Jon Arryn who suspected her relationship with Jamie went far beyond that of the love between brother and sister.

Cersei had known for a while that Jon Arryn knew the truth of her childrens' parentage. He'd told her himself of what he knew and shortly after he'd died. "Not by my hand," she'd told Jamie when he'd asked her not hours after the Hand had fallen ill. "But I'm glad he croaked," she'd added. "The old fool was too involved in matters not of his concern". Though he'd accepted her word, she sensed Jamie hadn't believed her.

Of her four children only Aillith could claim Robert as her true father. _Perhaps that's why I've always loved the girl less_, Cersei had often thought. It was difficult for her to look at the girl and not see her husband in those blue eyes, that round chin. Aillith had been her first, conceived in a time long gone when Cersei Lannister had still desperately longed for the king's affection. Until she'd realized that his heart would always belong to Lyanna Stark. _Yes, damn the Starks._ Perhaps it wasn't fair to blame them for all the misfortunes she'd suffered over the past seventeen years, still her hatred of them burned deep. When Robert had announced their daughter was to wed young Robb, she'd thrown a fit. Even if she loved Aillith less than her blonde angels, it felt as though her husband's choice was an insult. _My daughter married to a Stark. The cruelty of the gods is boundless._

And she knew of Robert's wish to join Sansa Stark to her beloved Joffery, even if he'd kept her husband had kept his thoughts from her on the matter. Cersei had watched the girl closely during their time in Winterfell. She had the potential to be quite lovely once she'd grown a bit. Sweet tempered and demure, Sansa had proved not to pose much of a threat. Cersei had decided it'd be easy enough to break the girl to her will if it should ever come to that.

She caught sight of her brother up ahead, marching in front of Eddard Stark, leading their progression to the godswood. She yearned to walk beside him, take his hand for all to see. She wasn't ashamed of their love. It was the most natural thing in the world, second only to the love she felt for their three beautiful children. Unbidden thoughts of her other offspring came to her, the unfortunate little ones she'd felt quickening in her womb, left there by Robert's occasional successes. It hadn't been difficult to deal with them. The right potion at the right time, a bit of bleeding and cramps, and then they were nothing more than a memory. She didn't regret what she'd done. Robert had his trueborn, a daughter thankfully, who Cersei knew he loved above the others even though he didn't know the truth. If he had she'd have lost her head long ago. Thankfully her husband was too dim-witted to care. _The great Robert Baratheon, fooled by his own wife._

She'd tried to love Aillith and in some ways she did. The girl was her daughter after all. She could still remember how it'd felt to cradle the girl in her arms, her first born, and how she'd stayed up with the child through the nights, refusing to let her be handled by any others. Aillith had been difficult from the beginning, prone to wild crying fits even when she was still in the cradle. Over the years the girl had only grown more stubborn. _Just like her father._ The similarities between them couldn't be denied and once her affection for Robert faded so did her affection for the child. When Joffery had entered the world, she'd put Aillith aside, but she wasn't completely heartless as her daughter might think her.

She felt the girl's pain now, reminded of her own. She'd been around Aillith's age when she'd married Robert. She remembered how frightened she'd been, feeling the injustice of being a woman in their world not for the first time, but sharper than all those before. There'd been moments on their journey to Winterfell when she'd thought about reaching out to the girl, offering some small words of kindness, but then she'd looked into those blue eyes and pulled away again. It was just too difficult. _Besides she wants nothing to do with me_, Cersei had reassured herself each time she failed to comfort her daughter. _Maybe she'll be better off with the Starks, far from King's Landing and far from me._

They reached the godswood, where already the northern lords were assembled. Cersei fell into place at Lady Catelyn's side. _At least it's not raining_, she thought, hoping the ceremony would be quick. She'd wed Robert in the warmth of Baelor's Sept, a much more hospitable location. These heathen northerners had no faith in the Seven, however. Only their heart trees mattered. She inspected the red-eyed weir wood distastefully, disliking the way it looked back at her, as though it knew her sins. _I did what I had to. I couldn't have borne anymore of his children. I couldn't have loved them._

Her breath clouded around her in white mist, blending with the morning fog. Jamie caught her eye and smiled, making her heart flutter like a young girl's again. Only he could make her feel that way, young and innocent, though he'd taken her innocence when they'd been little more than children back at the Rock. The feeling smoldered out as soon as Tyrion took his place at her other side.

"Fine day for a wedding," he said, rubbing his stunted hands together.

"Indeed," Cersei said, her words ice. Sometimes it amazed her that she could bear such crippling love for one brother and such hatred for the other.

"The groom looks about to vomit," Tyrion said quietly so as not to be overheard by Lady Catelyn. Cersei looked to the boy. Once, long ago, he might have made her swoon, though Cersei suspected he'd have more trouble winning over her daughter. Tyrion was right though. The boy looked sick, his face pale as snow. Lord Eddard stood near his son, as grave and unreadable as ever, and behind him the septon. Cersei had insisted on the old man's presence. _My daughter might have to marry in the godswood, but there will be a septon._ That much Robert had allowed. The old ma leaned heavily on his crooked staff, his eyelids fluttering as though he were about to fall asleep where he stood. _He won't survive the journey home_, Cersei thought, not upset by it at all.

The sound of horns drew all eyes to the edge of the godswood. Aillith was led into the sacred grove by her father. Even now Cersei found it hard to keep the disgust from her expression at the sight of them, at how close in appearance they were. _It's a shame she didn't take after me_. _What did Joffery used to call her? Pug, wasn't it? _The nickname was fitting. Even a bride, Aillith's appearance was far from inspiring. The way she grimaced didn't help much. As Robert directed her past all those gathered, Aillith glared stubbornly ahead.

They walked by where Cersei stood and the queen's hand stung with the slap she'd given the girl in her gardens not long ago. She heard her daughter's words of that day. _Just because you let yourself be whored to…_She regretted striking the girl, but those words had cut her deep. She wouldn't be talked to like that. Especially not by her own daughter, even if what the girl had said was true. It was that very honesty that had shattered Cersei's restraint.

Robert and the princess stopped before Robb Stark and some northern priest ( if they called them priest, Cersei couldn't be sure) began to read the marriage rites.

"Robb Stark, before the gods of old I ask you, will you take this woman as your wife?" the northern man intoned. Robb, not looking at the princess, gave his consent. Then the man turned to Aillith.

"Aillith Baratheon, before the gods of old I ask you, will you take this man as your husband?"

"I will," Aillith said. Cersei didn't miss the note of bitterness in the girl's voice. She knew her daughter well. Better than the girl thought she did. From where she stood she could see the crease in Aillith's brow, the way she struggled not to say what she truly wanted to.

Robert lifted the black cloak emblazoned with the golden stag of House Baratheon from Aillith's shoulders and folded it over his arm before stepping back. Then young Robb moved forward and replaced it with a white cloak bearing the Stark direwolf. _Such a savage beast, _Cersei thought. _Then again Aillith has always been a something of a savage._ _Perhaps part of the blame does lie with me._

She hadn't done her best where Aillith was concerned, but she had tried in her on way to raise the girl as a proper princess. And she'd failed at every turn. There was no controlling her willful daughter and she hadn't wasted too much effort on what she knew was a lost cause. Robert's blood simply flowed too heavy through the girl's veins.

"In the eyes of the gods and with the powers vested in me through them, I seal this union between Robb of House Stark and Aillith of House Baratheon. What is done by the gods may not be undone."

The words were so final. _What is done by the gods may not be undone._ Robb took Aillith's hands as the godswood filled with cheers. Neither of the young ones smiled. Nor did Cersei Lannister. She watched her daughter pass by again, this time with her new husband, and a sudden pain filled her. It was a brief sorrow, but present nonetheless. As she looked upon her daughter's face images of the babe she'd once been flashed across the queen's mind. Her first born. The first child she'd felt stirring in her womb. She'd had so many hopes for the child then.

Cersei recalled sitting by the window of her chambers, still new to the capitol. Robert had been away on one of his hunts even though her time to birth was upon her. She'd gone into labor while he'd been gone and was then she realized he'd never love her, no matter how many children she gave him. So she'd sworn in that moment, peering out over the city, that she'd give him no more, but when the birthing pain had stolen all her senses she'd made a delirious promise to the child within her. _I will keep you safe_, she'd sworn, pushing as hard as she could, blood from her body soaking the sheets. _I will never let them do to you what was done to me._ Remembering that promise filled her with momentary guilt as she realized she'd broken her word. She'd done exactly what she'd professed never to do.

Then Aillith was gone. Cersei straightened her shoulders and returned to the castle with the others, telling herself all the way that what had been done by the gods could not be undone.


	14. Chapter 14

"Into each life a little rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary." -Longfellow

Aillith

Aillith had told her husband that she needed to relieve herself and that she would return to the feast shortly. Instead she'd made her way outside. It was too warm and crowded in the hall. She doubted any one would miss her. The hour was late and all, the guests were heavy into their cups. Even her husband had drunk his fill, no doubt preparing for the ordeal to come. He hadn't spoken to her save to ask her for their first and only dance. She'd stepped on his toes, clumsier than usual. The way he'd grimaced, the stiffness of his arms around her, seared like a fresh wound.

She sat on the castle steps and folded her arms around her knees, doing her best to hold herself together. _I'm a woman wed now._ Aillith knew the duties that entailed. Her mother had explained them to her long ago, but over the years she'd tried not to think of it. It seemed such a brutal practice to her. She'd heard the stable boys speak of it, their eyes glowing, but she'd never understood what excited them. When she'd danced with Robb, she'd searched deep inside for some spark at his touch, some fluttering of her heart, and instead she'd only felt sick. _Has he been with other women?_ she wondered. _If so, will he be disappointed by me?_

In King's Landing she'd been sheltered from most men outside of her family. She'd been taught that her maidenhood belonged to her husband alone and she'd been only too glad to abide by that rule. Often Alodie had spoken to her of this or that knight. Her maid was no innocent, that much Aillith knew from what the girl had told her, but the princess had led a passionless life, a fact that had never bothered her until now. Looking up at the pale moon, she wished she'd experienced the feelings her maid had, just once, for she didn't expect to find them when Robb Stark took her to his bed.

From the shadows, her lord husband's direwolf appeared. _Grey Wind,_ she remembered as the animal approached her. She stretched out her hand timidly. Grey Wind rubbed his snout against her open palm before licking her fingers. It tickled.

"You're not nearly as big as I thought you were," she said to the wolf, as he burrowed his head against her hand, showing her more affection than his master ever had. "No, you're just a pup yet." Aillith wasn't frightened of him now. There were much darker horrors waiting for her. She let the wolf rest his head on her lap and scratched behind his ears. He gave a soft yip of pleasure.

"At least you like me," she said. "I don't think your master is very fond of me." Grey Wind looked up at her, his black eyes reflecting the moonlight. A sound in the night caught his attention and just like that he was prancing off again. Aillith watched him, sad to see him go, yet somehow strengthened by his brief visit. _I'm a wolf too now,_ she thought, tempted to howl into the night when she heard Grey Wind's own whine further off. Instead she stood, ready to return to the celebration.

She'd set one foot into the hall when the giant of a man Jon Umber appeared before her. She felt as though she could drown in his shadow. The great lord looked down at him, a smile lost in the fearsome tangles of his beard and his eyes bright from the drink.

"A dance, my lady?" he asked, holding out his massive palm. Aillith didn't know how to refuse, though she feared he was like to crush her if they danced. Thankfully she was saved the trouble.

"Actually, the princess promised me the next dance," Jon Snow said, suddenly beside her. Lord Umber looked to each of them in turn. For a moment, Aillith thought he might squash Jon under his boot right there in the hall, but then he laughed.

"Another time then," he said. Then he lumbered off to find another woman to dance with. Aillith turned to Jon Snow.

"Thank you," she said.

"He's a nice man," Jon said. "And a terrible dancer. I thought I'd spare you the ordeal." Candlelight glimmered over the young bastard's dark curls. He gave her a soft smile, bowed and moved to go. Something made Aillith grab his arm before though.

"What about that dance?" she asked, feeling bold. She wasn't ready yet to return to her frowning lord husband. His brother seemed rather more pleasant company. She found the way he blushed at her words sweet. While he fumbled to answer, she took his hand and led him further into the hall, near where father was swaying with one of the northern lord's wives.

"I'm not very good at this," Jon said, the red in his cheeks deepening as he put a light hand on her waist.

"Neither am I," Aillith assured him. The musicians struck up a new song and the young pair began to move across the floor. Contrary to his words, the princess was pleased to find that her partner was much more graceful than he'd claimed to be. Gradually his embarrassment seemed to leave him and he was able to lead her through the steps. In the capitol she'd suffered through a thousand dances with old and young lords alike, knights from all over the world, but only Jon Snow had ever made her feel like she was floating.

"You lied," she said, tilting back her head to see him clearly. He wasn't grimacing as her husband had. In fact, the way he looked at her made her feel odd. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. He spun her away from him, then pulled her back into his arms in a motion that left her giddy.

"So did you," Jon said.

"My mother says I have two left feet." Jon glanced down at her feet, as though checking for himself.

"Looks like a left and a right to me," he chuckled. "I haven't congratulated you yet."

"Pardon?"

"On your marriage."

For a moment, Aillith had forgotten all about her husband. Jon's reminder made her feel guilty for reasons she didn't quite understand.

"Oh," she said. "Thank you." They didn't say anymore. Aillith found herself dreading the song's end. She was content where she was, in Jon Snow's arms. His touch stirred that something within her that she'd been searching for. It struck her how handsome he truly was. Not in the same way as his brother. There was an easiness to his smile that she hadn't seen in Robb. His eyes, a shade grey darker than her husband's, twinkled as they danced. _But there's something haunted in him_, the princess thought. She didn't find it at all distasteful. Their lips were mere inches apart. _I could kiss him_. _I want to kiss him._

Then the song ended. Jon let her go and she remembered who she was. Still he held her a moment longer and she thought perhaps he might want to kiss her as well, but her father's voice shattered the moment.

"I think it's past time we sent these two younglings on their way," the king said. Jon stepped back, making way for the king. As her father took her arm, she lost sight of him in the crowd. The world crashed over her once more.

Suddenly she found herself amidst a swarm of men. Likewise at the high table she caught a glimpse of Robb surrounded by women before her father lifted her into his arms, cradling her like a child and lumbering across the hall. The crowd cheered as she was carried passed them. She felt hands tugging at her wedding gown, disrobing her for all to see. It was only tradition for the bride and groom to be taken to their bed this way, but Aillith couldn't help but feel as though she were being attacked. It took a great deal of effort not to strike out at the men around her as they tore at the fine silk of her bridal dress. Her cheeks burned. The Greatjon's drunken laughter trailed behind them through the halls of Winterfell.

Aillith clutched at her father's embroidered vest. By the time they reached her husband's chambers, she felt thoroughly like a terrified child. Her father dumped her unceremoniously onto the bed. Shortly after her husband was ushered in by the women, naked from the waist up and grimacing still. Save for their mothers, all the women giggled and teased him on their way out. She heard her father say, "I expect you know where to stick it," as he chased after the women, the other men close behind him. Lord Eddard was the last to leave. He sent them each a gentle, if sympathetic, smile before closing the door.

Aillith hadn't moved from where she'd been dropped, her ruined dress spread in tatters around her. Shock had gripped her from the moment she'd been lifted into her father's arms. Now as it receded she felt the same old fear of before. All the strength the direwolf's company had provided was gone. Robb stood by the door for some time, looking at everything else in the room but his bride. Aillith wasn't sure if she should speak or if she should go to him. She didn't trust her shaky legs to carry her across the room though.

Someone had spread flower petals across the bed. Aillith plucked up one of them, smooth under her fingers, and crushed it in her fist. When Robb finally approached her, she couldn't stop herself from scooting away from him. She'd have tumbled right off the bed had he not grabbed her arm.

"We have to," was all he said. Aillith let him turn her around. She held her breath as he undid her laces and pulled the wedding gown over her head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Left only in a thin shift, she shivered though it wasn't cold. She kept her eyes on the dress, a white puddle on the carpet, while he husband slipped out of his breeches. When he tried to remove her underclothes, she crossed her arms over her chest, still not looking at him. It was a small relief when he didn't continue his efforts to undress her.

Instead he crawled atop of her, his weight making it difficult to breathe, and pushed the shift up around her waist. He wasn't rough with her, which she supposed she should be grateful for. His fingers grazed her chin, turning her head to place a brittle kiss at the corner of her lips.

"I'm sorry," he said, his breath hot and smelling of ale. Aillith didn't know if he was sorry for her or for himself. She didn't have much time to consider it though. Pain overcame every other thought as he slid into her. She clenched her teeth around the cry that threatened to spill forth. _I will not cry_, she told herself over and over again as her husband moved on top of her. Really she was too numb for tears. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to go somewhere else in her mind- back to the docks, the ships bobbing on the dark sea, to her mother's gardens where fish of all colors swam without a care in the world, to the safety of her own bed back home, to the hall not moments ago where she'd danced with Jon Snow.

It didn't take her husband long to finish the deed. Without a word, Robb rolled away, his back to her. Aillith didn't move. Long after her husband's breathing evened into slumber, she remained on her back looking at the rafters above. As the first light of morning spilled through the window, she unfurled her fingers. The flower petal still in her hand drifted to the floor.


	15. Chapter 15

"The sure-thing boat never gets far from shore." -Dale Carnegie

Robb

By the time Robb woke, his tongue still coated in ale, the sun had already climbed high into the sky. He closed his eyes against the daylight, instantly regretting all he'd drunk the night before. There was an insistent throbbing at his temples that made it impossible to fall once more into slumber. He stretched out his arms, meaning to work out the kinks in his muscles, when his hand brushed something soft. Turning his head, he saw the princess at his side, the blankets pulled tight under her chin. The sight of her brought yesterday's events flooding back to him. _I'm married. What the gods have done cannot be undone._

He gazed at the woman in his bed, trying to come to terms with the fact that she was his wife now. Their union had been sealed. The virginal blood staining the sheets was proof enough of that, though he hardly remembered the ordeal. _I shouldn't have drunk so much_. The princess' dark hair spilled over her face. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, Robb brushed the long strands back. Even sleeping she looked troubled. He wondered if he'd hurt her and hoped he hadn't. Last night was a haze. The girl whimpered. She shifted restlessly beside him.

Robb slid out from beneath the blankets and realizing that he was as naked as they day he'd been born, he quickly pulled on his discarded breeches. A servant had left their breakfast on the table. His made his way across the room, fell into one of the stiff-backed chairs and plucked a slice of fried bread from the table. Feeling queasy, he could only manage a few nibbles before giving up the effort. His eyes kept wandering back to the princess. _My wife._ Outside the clouds had parted. The sun blossomed in the sky, promising a warm day.

As his mind cleared, Robb found himself considering what would happen next. He'd spent so much time dreading the wedding that he hadn't given much thought to how his life would be afterwards. His wife rolled onto her side. The coverlet slipped from her shoulder. He noted that she still wore her shift and remembered, as though from a dream, how she'd covered herself when he'd tried to undress her. He remembered her eyes, wide with fear, refusing to meet his own. It dawned on him then how selfish he'd been, so concerned with his own dissatisfaction at their union that he hadn't considered how his new bride most feel. Watching the way she fretted in her sleep filled him with unexpected sympathy. _None of this is her fault_.

He was still watching her when her eyes opened. He saw the momentary flicker of confusion as she took in her surroundings. Then her eyes found him.

"Good morning," he said, doing his best to sound cheery. Aillith sat up, pulling the covers over her shoulders once more, and whispered a hesitant good morning in return. Robb filled one of the silver cups on the table with water from the pitcher and walked towards the bed. He held the glass out to her. All the while her blue eyes followed him, as though he was one of their direwolves and she was unsure of his intentions. She took the cup he offered, but drank none of it.

"I hope you slept well," Robb said, returning the table. It was easy to see that his nearness made her uncomfortable. He supposed for good reason. There was no hint of disgust on her face, only wariness and embarrassment. She looked nothing like the cold, stubborn girl he'd first laid eyes on in the courtyard. _I should get to know her_, Robb thought. _The least I can do is try._

"It looks like it's going to be a nice day." He gestured to the clear skies through the window. "I thought, perhaps, we could go for a ride. Only if you want to of course." She didn't speak, simply nodded, his invitation seeming to give her no pleasure. The silence was choking between them.

"Well," Robb said, unable to stand the discomfort any longer or the suspicion etched into every line of her face. "I'll be in the training yard, if you want to go out…whenever you're dressed or…" He let the words taper off. The mention of her undress had brought a bright red flush to her cheeks.

Robb left her, sensing that she didn't want him in the room any more than he wanted to be there. Jon and Theon were in the yard, half-heartedly sparring with blunt blades until they noticed Robb. Together they made exaggerated bows as he approached, their grins breaking through the serious masks they tried to uphold.

"My prince," Theon cried, sweeping the ground with his hand.

"My prince," Jon repeated. They knelt at his feet and placed their practice swords before him.

"May I kiss your royal arse, your highness?" Theon asked. Robb gave the ward a push that sent him laughing onto his back.

"Alright enough," he muttered, knowing full well they'd planned this greeting.

"Is that an order, my prince?" Jon asked, rising to his feet.

"We live to obey you, our most gracious prince," Theon said, obviously not having learned in his lesson. Robb couldn't help but laugh. The day's warmth put him in a better mood than he'd known since his marriage had been announced. For a moment he let himself be a boy again, the silliness of his closest friends proving to be most infective.

"So?" Theon asked, wiping the dirt from his pants and pinning Robb with a curious stare.

"So what?"

"How was it bedding a princess?"

"Alright." Robb's smile faltered. He didn't want to admit to them that he remembered very little of the night.

"Just alright?" Theon looked unimpressed by the answer. "You did stick it in the right place didn't you?" Robb picked up one of the blunted swords and held it threateningly to Theon's chest.

"I'll stick you in the right place," he said. Theon held up his hands in surrender.

"Really though," Jon spoke. "All went well?"

"She was a bit, erm, lifeless," Robb confessed. These weren't the sort of things he could talk about with his father, but the suspicion in the princess' eyes had made him worry. Yet again he found himself hoping that he hadn't hurt her.

"Well, what you'd expect?" Theon said, rolling his eyes. "She was a maid, after all. Or wasn't she?"

"She was," Robb answered promptly.

"You'll have to woo her."

"Woo her?" Jon laughed. "What would you know of wooing women? I didn't think whores required much of that."

"And what would you know or whores, our precious, little virgin Snow," Theon said, wrapping his arm around Jon and rubbing his knuckles against the young man's skull.

"How would you propose I _woo_ her?" Robb asked, trying to sound as though it were a joke still, when truly he was desperate for any advice he could glean.

"Flowers," Theon said. "Girls love flowers."

"Or just spending some time with her," Jon suggested.

"Write her some poetry."

"Tell her that her eyes are as blue as the summer sky," Jon chuckled.

"And that her breasts majestic as mountains," Theon added.

"Maybe you shouldn't mention her breasts."

Robb couldn't imagine himself writing any poetry. He couldn't imagine the princess much enjoying it either. _Flowers though. That's not such a bad idea. _While the sparred, his companions continued to call out their ideas for wooing his wife, each one more ridiculous than the last. When Theon suggested composing an erotic dance, going so far as to give them an example, the three boys laughed so hard it was impossible to hold their swords.

After they parted ways for the afternoon, Robb wandered from the castle grounds into a field of wildflowers, bursts of fiery orange and cool purples, at the edge of the Wolfswood. He felt silly picking a bouquet, something he'd never done before, but if it would soften his wife he'd plant a whole field of flowers just for her. _The gods know I need all the help I can get_._ Even if it means I have to write her some damned poetry._ He'd told Jon to let the princess know where he'd be, in case she decided to take him up on his offer for a ride, but by the time he returned to the castle, bouquet in hand, the sun was setting and his wife hadn't tried to find him. She wasn't in their chambers either when he returned to dress for supper, so he slid the flowers into the pitcher and placed them on her side of the bed. Staring at them for a moment, their vibrant colors at odds with the room's sophisticated furnishings, he thought about leaving a note with them as well.

_Your eyes are as blue as the…_Robb scribbled through the half-written line. The quill dripped ink onto the page, but nothing else came to him. Finally he decided the flowers were enough for now. He balled of the parchment, tossed it into the hearth and watched his pathetic attempts at wooing shrivel up in the flames.


	16. Chapter 16

"We may go to the moon, but that's not very far. The greatest distance we have to cover still lies within us." -Charles de Gaulle

Aillith

About an hour after Robb left her, Aillith had gone to the training yard, having decided while she lay in bed to take him up on his offer to go riding. Then she'd seen him, laughing in the yard with his brother and Theon Greyjoy. Standing a good distance from the trio, she'd watched her husband wrestle with Jon and laugh, the carefree sound of it ringing bitter in her ears. She hadn't known how to approach them. _I don't belong_, she'd thought. It'd been the first time she'd seen her husband look truly happy. Partly she'd been loath to ruin the moment for him and a darker part of her had felt jealous. There was no other word for it. It wasn't fair that he could forget, that he could be a normal boy again with friends, while she'd given all that up to come to a place she didn't know to marry him.

So she'd turned her back on the training yard and the pretty picture the three young men made. She wandered through the castle and its surrounding grounds, unaware of where she was going, like a ghost. She'd found the library, hoping her Uncle Tyrion would be there, and found the room empty. For a while she'd drifted between the endless rows of books, leaving through pages in the dim candlelight without being able to read any of the words. Then she'd gone to the chambers she'd been brought to her first day at Winterfell only to find them empty as well, the sheets cleared from the bed and all her belonging gone, moved to the new rooms she shared with her husband. She'd gone to the hall, where the servants had already cleaned the mess from the feast the night before, but she hadn't stayed long, remembering how full of laughter the room had been the previous night and distraught by how silent it was now.

Eventually she'd found herself outside once more, on the other side of the castle from the training yard. Without being aware of her movements, she'd come to stand in the shadow of one of Winterfell's older towers. The structure was caved in parts, the stone bending in ways she hadn't thought possible. Something about the ruin comforted her. She sat with her back against the broken tower, haunted by the sound of Robb Stark's laughter. _He was right_, she thought as she peered into the unfathomable depths of a clear, blue sky, the sun's warmth kissing her skin more tenderly than her husband had. _It is a beautiful day._ And she sensed that the gods were mocking her misery.

A sound from above caught her hear, but when she looked up there was only the tower, its windows empty. _There are other ghosts here besides me._ When she stretched out her legs she felt the soreness between them again, an irritant ache and reminder. She wished the other ghosts of Winterfell wouldn't shy away from her. She wished they'd come and laugh with her, be her friends. When she heard another sound overhead, she thought perhaps they'd heard her silent wishes or perhaps were drawn in by her solitude, but the figure she saw dangling from a window twenty feet above the ground was no ghost. Rather it was a boy.

Thinking that he was about to fall, Aillith leapt to her feet and opened her arms, thinking to catch him even as she realized the task was impossible. The boy let go of the window ledge. Aillith cried out. She watched him falling. _He'll die_, she thought, her chest tight with terror. Then the boy suddenly stopped. He grabbed a protruding block of stone, then another and another, climbing deftly to the ground to land beside her. Aillith gaped at the boy.

"How…how did you?" she stammered. "I thought you were going to fall!" Bran Stark looked up her. Though his eyes were the same grey as his brother's and sister Arya's, they held none of the resentment his siblings' had.

"Everyone thinks that," he said. "I never do."

"Oh." Aillith realized that her arms were still stretched out to catch him. She let them fall to her sides once more, still stunned by what she'd just seen.

"Well, I did once," the boy said. "I just broke my arm. It wasn't so bad. Have you ever broken your arm?"

"No. I've never climbed a castle either." She'd never thought to. Heights had always made her nervous. She admired the boy, thinking how nice it'd be to be as fearless as him. "Could you teach me?" she blurted, before she could consider what she was asking. Bran looked at her confused, so she added, "To climb like that, I mean."

"I guess so." Bran inspected her, as though sizing up her worth. It was a process she'd grown used to. _These Starks have a way of measuring a person._ "Won't your mother be mad though? Mine always is and she isn't even a queen."

"Neither of them has to know." She guessed the boy's smile was proof that he was pleased with her answer.

"Okay then," he said, his mind made up. "But not here. We should start somewhere easier since it's your first time."

Aillith let the boy lead her from the ruined tower's shadow, back the way she'd come earlier. With each step her resolved flagged. _This is a stupid idea. I'm just going to break my neck._ Still she followed Bran and stopped when he did at an outward wall of the castle even more pitted with holes. It wasn't nearly as tall as the tour, but she still had to crane her neck to see the ledge. As Bran pointed out the best foot and hand holes near the wall's base, she wondered over and over again what she'd gotten herself into. Then she remembered her husband laughing with his friends. The memory made her bold, the injustice of his happiness filled her with reckless abandon.

Bran guided her as her feet left the ground. Only a few inches up and her stomach clenched, but then she felt the young Stark boy's hand touch her ankle, a small gesture of reassurance.

"Careful," he said. "Some parts of the stone are weak. If you grab the wrong place you'll slip."

Aillith honed onto to his voice, listening closely to where he told her to go. It surely wasn't as easy as he'd made it look. More than once she was paralyzed by fear, but the thought of going back down was even worse. She made a point to keep her eyes fixed on the stone in front of her, not looking to the sky or to the ground, until her fingers grasped open air.

"Almost there," Bran called up to her. He scaled past her, moving from memory alone without even needing to look at what he was grabbing hold of. Once he'd pulled himself onto the ledge of the wall, he reached down for her hand and helped her over the side as well.

Suddenly all of Aillith's fear disappeared. A wild and vast world stretched out before her- trees shimmering green, their colors dancing under the fading light of day. _I've never noticed how many shades of green a forest has. _On the journey to Winterfell, she'd thought every inch of the forest dull and unison, now she saw that it was a myriad of ashy mosses, incandescent jades and silvery pines. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen and when she spread her arms against the wind she felt as though she were drowning in it, that the wind could carry her into the greens.

"Incredible," she said. For the first time she saw the beauty of the north and she tried to catch it in her open arms. Bran grabbed the back of her dress when she leaned over to far. The princess looked over to him and not knowing what else to do she laughed as her husband had, as a child would.

"I've been climbing since I could walk," he told her, perched on the wall like bird. He seemed to belong there with the sky all around him. "I've always thought it'd be nice to fly."

"It is," Aillith said, knowing just how it felt as she sat on top of the world. _Nothing can touch me here. I left all my troubles below._ "Thank you, Bran." And then feeling that the words didn't express her gratitude enough, she wrapped her arms around the boy and planted a kiss on his forehead, not even bothered when he wiped the spot her lips had touched, a hint of distaste on his face.

"We can go higher tomorrow, if you want," he told her. "But we should head down before it's too dark." Already the sun was sliding down into a sea of green. Still Aillith asked if they could stay a moment longer. They sat in peaceful silence, swinging their legs against the wall. Aillith couldn't remember a happier time. Up here she wasn't a princess or Robb Stark's wife. She was a bird, free to go and do wherever she liked. When she looked down at the drop below, not afraid anymore, she saw one of the Stark's direwolves prowling the ground, whining up at them. Bran waved down at it.

"That's mine," he said, a note of unmasked pride in the declaration. "His name's Summer."

"Summer." Aillith tasted the name even as a breath of cold wind washed over them. The warm day was quickly becoming another chilly night ripe with winter whispers. Bran Stark couldn't be any older than Myrcella. _He's only known summer._

Although she wanted to argue when Bran insisted they begin the climb back down, she let him help her lower herself over the wall. The journey to the ground went by much faster. When she was ten feet from the bottom, she let go and let herself fall the rest of the way, exhilarated by the way the air whistled around her. Her feet hit the ground and she caught herself against the stone. Bran landed beside her. The smiled at each other, both understanding how the other felt without needed to speak it. A beautiful secret lingered between them. _The secret of how to fly._ The boy let her take his hand as they made their way back to the castle.

"Sansa says the Red Keep is a lot higher than the castle here," Bran said.

"It is. So high I doubt even you could climb to the top."

"I could," the boy said stubbornly.

"Alright, someday we'll climb it together." While she doubted she'd ever see the Red Keep again, the promise made Bran's eyes burn with feverish excitement. Still joyously dizzy with the lingering aftermath of their climb, Aillith let go of his hand and said, "Race you back".

Then she was running so fast it seemed her feet might leave the ground once more. Bran and Summer chased after her. _Friends better than ghosts._


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Just thought I should mention that even though there is a bit of Jon in this story, Robb is the dominant focus. For now at least...Read, review, enjoy.

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"Until you make peace with who you are, you'll never be content with what you have." -Doris Mortman

Jon

The stables were warm, heady with the smell of dung and fresh hay. Jon was brushing out the tangles from his stallion's mane. Her chestnut mane was still coated in sweat and rain from a hard day's ride. He hung the brush back on its hook, filled his hand with sweet oats and let the horse lap them up from his palm while he stroked her neck. Ginger had been a gift from his father on his fourteenth name day. She was a sweet horse, nothing like King Robert's fiery, black steed in the next stall. Most of the stable hands were afraid to go near the beast, especially after it'd proven to be just as prone to biting as its master. Ginger wasn't as fast as the king's, but Jon much preferred her company. She whickered at him softly, nudging her head against his arm.

"Sweet girl," he murmured, wiping the saliva from his hand onto his breeches. He checked her water trough, glad to see it'd already been filled and he wouldn't have to drag the heavy bucket from the well, before backing out of the stall. He greeted each horse by name as he passed them- Robb's black North Star, Sansa's sweet-tempered Cissy, Arya's stubborn Wing and Rickon's stocky pony called Pony. Each of them reflected his sibling's personality. Wing whinnied as he walked past, in just as foul of a mood as Arya had been all day.

She hadn't been pleased when their father had announced that she'd be going with him and Sansa to the capitol. All day she'd stalked the grounds of Winterfell, looking to pick a fight. Jon had seen more than one stable boy with a bloody nose that day. Lady Catelyn hoped that some time in King's Landing would turn Arya into a proper noble girl. Jon feared it might do just the opposite. _I'll be sad to see her go_, he thought, giving Wing a pat on his way. _Winterfell won't be the same without her._ But he supposed the princess' presence would keep the castle's boredom at bay.

It'd been a week since Robb's marriage and after their dance at the feast, Jon had tried to keep his distant from the princess. She made him feel a certain way that he knew he shouldn't. It hadn't been too difficult. After all, Lady Catelyn had made it clear that she expected him to keep out of sight as much as he could while the royal party was in residence.

"The bastard will offend them," he'd overheard her telling his father. Jon hadn't stuck around to see if his father defended him or not. It didn't much matter. All his years with Lady Catelyn didn't seem to matter. He'd grown up with her children, been her oldest son's closest companion, and yet to this day she looked at him as though he were a nuisance she couldn't wait to be rid of. Jon knew he shouldn't blame her, but it was difficult not to feel stung by her behavior toward him. There'd been a time when he was much younger when he'd sought out Lady Catelyn's affections, hoping to fill the void his own mysterious mother had left behind.

On occasion he thought of her still, the mother he'd never known. He wondered where she was, if she was even still alive. _And if she is, does she miss me?_ He'd only asked his father about her once and the look in Eddard's eyes had quailed any further attempts. Jon had accepted long ago that he'd probably never know anything about the woman who'd birthed him, not even her name, but every now and again he dreamed of a woman with hair dark as night and pouty lips like his own. She must have been very beautiful for his father to have broken his marriage vows.

Coming out of the stables, distracted by an image of the woman from his dreams, Jon wasn't prepared when someone crashed into him. He hit the ground hard, his limbs tangled with those of another's, and his mouth filled with the taste of dirt and blood. The princess stared down at him, her hands on his chest.

"Hello," he said. He hadn't seen her when he'd stepped from the stables. It was as though she'd appeared from nowhere. Aillith, looking sheepish, scrambled off of him.

"Sorry," she muttered. "I slipped." She looked up the stable roof a good thirty feet above them.

"You were up there?" Jon asked, propping himself up onto his elbows. Aillith nodded.

"Bran's been teaching me to climb. We were supposed to move on to the stables today, but he was at his lessons and I thought I might could do it on my own." She spoke so fast he found it difficult to keep up with her words. He noticed she moved her hands when she talked, as though trying to shape her rapid speech in the empty air between them. Her delicate palms were red and raw. _From all that climbing_, Jon thought, amused. It wasn't the behavior one expected from a princess. Before she'd arrived, he'd imagined she'd be an older version of Sansa, soft spoken with her feet solidly rooted in the ground, but each time he spoke to her he realized more and more how wrong his assumptions had been.

Aillith's eyes widened. She scooted towards him on her knees, oblivious to the stains the motion left on her dress, and touched his face.

"You're bleeding," she said. "I've hurt you." Jon laughed at her pained expression. He didn't feel hurt, though he supposed tomorrow the soreness would come to him.

"Don't worry about it, my lady. It's a pleasure to break the princess' fall." She pulled her hand back, scowling.

"I told you not to call me that. We're family, Jon." She pulled a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the corner of his lips, her touch like moth wings brushing his skin. _It feels nice. Too nice._ Remembering himself, he pushed away her hand, gently so as not to offend her.

"I'm fine," he said. "Honestly. You're the one who needs to be more careful."

"Have you ever tried to climb a stable in a dress?" she shot back at him. Jon couldn't say that he had.

"No, but I imagine it'd be quite the sight." The image of him scaling the castle walls in lady's clothes brought a wave of laughter. When Aillith rose to her feet, still smiling, she offered her hand to him, but as soon as he was standing he let go and took a step back. It was too easy to forget who she was when she was laughing, so Jon reminded himself. _She's a princess. She's Robb's wife and you're only a bastard._

"You should get some better climbing attire," he teased. "Borrow some of Robb's clothes. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"You don't think?" she asked, her mind seeming to drift elsewhere at the mention of her husband. "I'm not sure he'd approve if he knew."

"Then you don't know him very well," Jon said. Aillith met his gaze.

"No, I suppose I don't." Eager to turn the topic away from her husband, she hurried on. "Bran's been teaching me other things too."

"What sorts of things?"

"About the north. Mostly stories his nanny's told him." Aillith opened her hands, as though trying to show him the stories. "Do you think giants are real?"

"Who knows what's real on the other side of the Wall?"

"Have you ever seen it? The Wall, I mean."

"No," Jon admitted. "My Uncle Benjen though, he's a ranger for the Nightswatch, and he says it's like nothing else in the world."

"Maybe we could go someday."

"Maybe," he said, at the same time thinking how unlikely it was. He suspected she was thinking the same thing. Hoping to make her smile again, he held out his arm.

"Shall I escort you back to the castle?" He tried to make his voice sound courtly. Aillith slipped her arm through his and together they made their way across the yard.

"Tell me a story," she said.

"Is that an order?"

"Yes." She grinned over at him to let him know she was only joking. "I know some of your northern history, but not nearly enough."

Jon pondered what story to tell her for a moment, trying to recall what Maester Luwin had taught him.

"Do you know about the king who knelt?" he asked.

"Everyone knows that story." Aillith rolled her eyes. "Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon Targaryen after he'd already conquered the south with his dragons." She recited it as though from a book, with none of the passionate expletives most northmen added when speaking of the last Stark king.

"Well, do you know about the first king in the north?" Aillith shook her head. No, she didn't. "Bran the Builder, he's called. Nearly eight thousand years ago he declared himself king. This was before any written records, when the andals had just conquered Westeros."

"How do you know he existed if there's no record of it?" the princess asked. Jon tapped his temple.

"It's all in man's memory, passed down from generation to generation."

"Men have a habit of telling lies," Aillith pointed out.

"Do you want me to tell the story or not?" She pressed her lips together and squeezed his arm, signaling him to go on. "They say Bran the Builder led the War for the Dawn."

"What's that?" she interrupted. They were in the castle now. Instead of going to her chambers, Jon led her to the cavernous hall where his father held court. The walls were lined with ancient tapestries, some of them so faded their stories had been worn invisible by time. He stopped before one near his father's seat. It was the largest of all, the once rich colors faded now, but in the fabric the first King of the north stood tall, his greatsword lifted against a fearsome pale creature.

"It was a war against the white walkers," Jon explained, letting her arm go and pointing at the enemy Bran the Builder fought in the tapestry. Aillith inspected it so closely her nose brushed the musty threads. Jon stood back, content to watch her gaze intently at their history.

"It's not human," she stated.

"No, it's not." He dredged up the words of Old Nan's frightful tales. "In that darkness the White Walkers came for the first time," he quoted. "They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses, hunting with their packs of pale spiders big as hounds."

Aillith stepped away from the tapestry, a deep frown line cutting across his brow, and wrapped her arms around her waist as though she were suddenly cold. Jon continued.

"There was winter during Bran the Builder's reign. Here it's known as the Long Night and it was during that night that the Walkers made their first appearance. They came from the Lands of Always Winter."

"Why?"

"No one knows," he said with a shrug. "But all the knights of Westeros banded together and pushed them back. Then Bran built the Wall to keep the kingdom safe from them."

Aillith faced him. She chewed her bottom lip, deep in concentration.

"I thought the Wall was to keep out the wildlings," she said.

"It is now. The White Walkers haven't been seen in thousands of years. Most people think they're just myths."

"And you?"

Jon had never given much thought to them. _What do I believe?_ He wasn't sure, but she looked so concerned by the story that he felt it his duty to reassure her.

"I think they died out a long time ago," he said. "And even if they are still around the Wall's more than enough to keep us safe."

Before either of them could say more, a blonde girl came into the hall.

"There you are," she huffed, her hands on her hips. "I've gone over every inch of this place trying to find you, my lady. Your mother says you need to dress for supper."

Aillith looked about to argue with the maid, but settled with a sigh instead. She looked to Jon apologetically, before going to the blonde woman's side. The maid took her arm and began pulling the unwilling princess out of the room. At the doors, Aillith glanced at him over her shoulder.

"Thank you," she said, her voice carrying clear as a bell across the room. "You'll have to tell me more sometime."

Then she was gone. The air around him felt different without her. Jon looked into the cold, cruel eyes of the White Walker on the tapestry, chilled for no reason. He'd seen the image a thousand times. It made no sense that it should make him uneasy now. But perhaps his agitation had less to do with the old story and more to do with the princess' absence. _You'll have to tell me more sometime_, she'd said. Part of him longed for that time. Somehow he felt as though he'd known her his entire life. Being in her company was too natural. He thought of her laugh, her smile, her blue eyes, and then there was another part of him that dreaded their next encounter and the feeling stirring in his chest. _She's a princess. She's Robb's wife_, he reminded himself yet again. _And I'm still just a bastard._


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: Alright, this is all I have so far. Update tomorrow. Read, review, enjoy.

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"Perhaps one day this too will be pleasant to remember."

Robb

The training yard rang with the sound of dulled steel on dulled steel. Robb stood to the side with Theon, watching as Bran ran through the movements Jory called out to him.

"Higher," the knight said. Bran, his face bunched in concentration, lifted his wooden blade over his head and swung it down in a clumsy arc. He was far from an accomplished swordsman. Then again Robb hadn't been much better at that age. _Jon was always the talented one._ His bastard brother hadn't joined them as usual today. Lately he'd preferred the company of his horse over anyone else's and whenever Robb asked him what troubled him, Jon only said the royal party's presence made him uncomfortable, something Robb could understand. Still he missed his brother.

His attempts at wooing the princess hadn't proven to do much good. The flowers he'd picked the day after their wedding remained wilted by their bedside, seemingly unnoticed by Aillith. He hadn't touched her since their first night together. He made a point to stay out late each night to avoid the way she looked at him and by the time he'd finally crawl into bed she'd be fast asleep. _Pretending to be asleep_, he suspected. She was always gone when he awoke and was careful to avoid going to the places where she knew he'd be.

"Keep your feet spread," Robb called out to his brother. "You're unbalanced." Bran ground his teeth together. Sweat trickled down his brow, but his determination was unfailing. As a younger son, Bran would most like become a knight someday. He certainly wasn't suited for the sept. There was too much fire in him. Old Nan's stories had filled his head with dreams of far off places and grand quests. Sometimes Robb wished he was a younger son, that he'd been able to dream the way Bran did, but for as long as he could remember he'd been groomed for the lordship that awaited him and all the responsibilities that came with it. _If I were Bran I wouldn't be trapped in such a loveless marriage._

Robb noticed that they were no longer alone in the yard. The young prince stood at the other edge, his lips curled into a smirk. He watched for a few minutes before stepping forward into the middle of the yard where Bran practiced. Jory called a halt, bowing to the prince. Bran followed suite, though his expression clearly showed his annoyance at being interrupted.

"How would you like a real fight?" the prince asked, picking a wooden sword from the rack and weighing it in his hands. The sunlight caught a cruel gleam in his eyes that made Robb nervous, but he stood helpless as the prince faced his younger brother. It wasn't his place to refuse the heir to the throne's wish.

Bran's fingers tightened around his practice blade. He looked down to make sure his feet were spread far enough apart and while his gaze was averted, the prince struck hard and fast. Robb winced at the sound of wood cracking against his brother's skull. As Bran fell to the ground, he took a step forward, but Theon held him back.

"Best not," he murmured, his eyes never leaving the prince. Robb clenched his fists, but let the two boys carry on. It was far from a fair fight. The prince was a few years older than Bran and a few inches taller. Bran held his ground valiantly, but for every blow he delivered the prince gave him three in return. As the minutes passed, the prince's attacks grew more vicious. They were sloppy. Even with his advantage of being larger and older, Bran could have bested him had he not already been practicing for nearly two hours. Robb also noticed that his brother seemed hesitant to strike the royal brat.

He backed further and further away, struggling to block the attacks, his thin arms beginning to tremble. It took everything in Robb not to call of the fight. Bran stumbled and fell again, losing his weapon in the process. Instead of letting him get back to his feet, the prince lifted his wooden sword, prepared to bring it down on the younger boy. This time Theon didn't hold Robb back when he stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his own sword. _Damn the consequence, _he thought, unable to watch his brother be harmed any further. Before he reached them though another voice rang across the yard.

"Joffery!" The princess marched towards her brother, blue eyes flashing in anger. In one swift motion, not pausing in her step, she retrieved Bran's sword and pointed it threateningly at the prince.

"How dare you?" she hissed. "How dare you move to strike him when he's unarmed? You were taught better than that."

The prince glared back at her, his cheeks aflame and his eyes hard as flint. For a moment, Robb thought he might strike his sister, but then he lowered his sword.

"If the boy can't handle a real fight, he has no business in the yard," the prince spat. Aillith responded by swinging her own sword, hitting him right in the gut. The prince doubled over, gasping in pain. Theon laughed so hard at the sight tears came to his eyes. Even Robb couldn't resist smiling.

"You can't…you can't hit me," Joffery sputtered. Aillith struck him again, this time knocking him right off his feet. She stood over him, the point of her wooden sword at his throat.

"If you can't handle a real fight," she sneered. "Then you've no business in the yard." She held the sword at his throat a moment longer before tossing it to the ground beside him and going to Bran. Robb watched her kneel at his side, gently wiping the blood from his temple.

"I thought you did well," she told him as she helped him to his feet. She didn't see the prince charging at their backs, but Robb guessed she must have heard him, because at the last minute she spun around and punched him right in the face. Bright red blood poured down his chin. His hands flew to his nose.

"You've broken my nose," he wailed.

"And what are you going to do about it?" the princess snapped, her arm thrown over Bran's shoulder. "You're Hound isn't here to protect you now." The look she gave him was so fierce it even frightened Robb a bit.

"I'll tell mother," the prince said. Aillith simply shrugged. Theon laughed harder when he scurried from the yard, glancing at his sister over his shoulder with a mixture of fear, blood and fury on his face.

"Come, let's get you cleaned up," Aillith said to Bran. Together they left the training yard, Robb's eyes following them until they disappeared.

"She's not half bad for a woman," Theon said once they'd gone. "Wouldn't mind giving that prick a whack over the head myself."

Robb silently agreed. _He deserved what he got. _He and Theon moved to take Bran and the prince's place, but that day Robb found himself almost as clumsy with his sword as his younger brother. His thoughts kept wandering back to what had just unfolded, the way his wife had stridden across the yard and beaten her brother effortlessly. He hadn't expected a princess to be able to wield a sword so gracefully. It was a side of her he hadn't seen before. She hadn't been the cautious, distrusting maid he shared a bed with. No, she'd looked what he imagined a wildling woman might look like, her dark hair whipping about her face untamed. More surprising was the softness in her eyes and touch when she'd cared for Bran.

Robb remembered what his father had told him in the Godswood, that love didn't matter near as much as respect. As he returned from the yard, battered and bruised from his session with Theon, he thought he might understand what his father had meant. Even if he didn't love his bride, he respected her for what she'd done for his brother.


	19. Chapter 19

"As long as the sun shines and the waters flow, this land will be here to give life to men and animals."

Aillith

Aillith sat on the cushioned window seat, her face pressed to the cool panes, exhausted from her morning with Bran. As usual, her husband was absent. She didn't expect he'd be back any time soon and she didn't mind. She was preoccupied with what Bran had taught her today. Over the past few days he'd stirred in her a grudging appreciation of the north and its history, much of it she hadn't known before. The only times she was truly happy in Winterfell were the moments she and Bran sat perched high above the ground, listening to him recite his lessons. Today after they'd made the arduous climb to the top of the lower east tower, Summer and Arya's wolf playing beneath them, he'd told her the story behind the name of his sister's direwolf. Although it was a tale she was already familiar with, she'd been content to listen to Bran's retelling. He had a way of bringing the old, dead tales to life in a way her own dull Maester never had.

Long ago Queen Nymeria of the Rhyone had arrived on the shores of Dorne with ten thousand ships. She'd led her armies against the Dornish knights for nearly a year, but after great losses on both sides she'd struck a deal with House Martell and taken their king as her husband. Together they ruled the Rhoyne and Dorne, bringing peace and prosperity to both their lands. It was one of Aillith's favorite stories, although her stuffy maester had spoken of the warrior queen briefly and disdainfully. "Women aren't meant to lead armies," he'd told her, to dispel any ideas she might have.

Now looking out across the Wolfswood, Aillith wondered what her life would be like if she were as bold as the Rhoynish queen, how it must have felt to have a king kneel at her feet, begging for mercy. _Such power_, she thought, wishing she could be half so brave. She closed her eyes and imagined she was Nymeria standing at the bow of a great warship with an army at her back. She could almost feel the sea breeze, hear the song of war drums, taste the blood of battle. Then she opened her eyes again and returned to the room she shared with Robb. _I'm not even brave enough to talk to my husband, let alone lead an army._ _I'm not brave enough to stand up to my mother either._

She remembered bitterly the lecture her mother had given her over breakfast that morning. As he'd promised, Joffery had told her everything that had happened in the yard, though his rendition made what she'd done sound much worse. Aillith had stared at the lumps in her porridge, letting the queen's berating wash over her in silence.

"Such behavior is unacceptable," her mother had said. "And in front of your new husband no less. Imagine what he must think of you now."

Aillith preferred not to. She hadn't thought about what he'd think at the time. She'd just seen Bran lying on the ground and her brother standing over him ready to strike. Her fury at the scene had made her throw all caution to the wind. For a moment she'd felt as bold as Queen Nymeria. _Joffery deserved worse, _she'd thought, but hadn't dared say to her mother. _A woman wed and still I feel like a child when she speaks to me._

A knock at the door pulled her from her reminiscing. She was relieved when her uncle poked his head into the room, thinking for a moment that it might be her husband, though she quickly realized he probably wouldn't have knocked at his own door, or her mother come to lecture her some more on proper behavior.

Tyrion strode across the room on his short legs, a rolled up parchment tucked under his arm. The sight of him warmed her. They hadn't spent nearly enough time together of late. Soon he'd leave and there was no knowing when they'd meet again. It wasn't something she enjoyed dwelling on for long.

"I've brought you something," he declared, spreading out the parchment on the table. Aillith left her seat by the window to get a better look. She wiped away the dust covering the paper, sneezing as it hit her nose, and peered down at a detailed map of the north. Faded blue lines twisted like snakes around brown mountains and stretches of dark, green forests. Each location was marked with elegant script. She danced her fingers from Winterfell, at the very heart of the map, east to the Dreadfort and east again to the hilly barrowlands.

"A little bird told me you'd taken an interest in learning about the north," Tyrion said. "They mentioned something about climbing the castle walls as well. Best not let that rumor spread to your mother."

"Best not," Aillith said absently, all her attention on the map before them. "Where'd you find it?"

"The library. There are hundreds of them, not many accurate. The land doesn't change much, but the men who claim to own it do."

Aillith traced an invisible line to the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall. Bran had told her that besides ironwood, sentinels and oak, the forest was home to more weirwoods than the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. She'd only seen the one in the godswood during her marriage ceremony. They were sacred to the people of the north, but those red eyes had made her uneasy. She imagined the White Walkers from the tapestry Jon had shown her gliding through the pale trees.

"What's this place?" she asked, pointing at three islands south of White Harbor. She read aloud the label beneath them. "The Three Sisters." Bran had never mentioned them and if her old maester had she didn't remember.

"Ah, the septons would say it's a place of sin." Tyrion pointed to each island in turn as it gave them their names. "The Sweetsister, the Longsister and the Littlesister." Aillith squinted at the little blotches of land. They didn't strike her as particularly sinful.

"Why don't the septons like the islands?" she asked.

"Not just the septons. Captains as well. The Night Lamp of Sisterton has led more than one sailing vessel to break against these stony shores," Tyrion explained. When Aillith looked at him confused he continued. "The Night Lamp is a false beacon operated by House Borrell."

"And why would they need it?"

"Why else?" Tyrion lifted himself into one of the stiff-backed chairs. "Greed. They scavenge the goods of the wrecked ships."

"And the septons?" She sat down across from him, the map spread between them, and rested her chin in the basket she made of her hands, waiting for her uncle to organize his thoughts.

"There were gods in these lands much older than the Seven," he began.

"Like the Stark's gods?"

"Yes and many more." He tapped the three islands again. "Before the Andals brought over their religion, the peoples of the Three Sisters worshipped the Lady of the Waves."

Aillith had never heard of her before, but she liked the sound of her title. She repeated it, letting the words roll of her tongue.

"They thought the storms that often plague those waters were caused when the Lady mated with the Lord of the Skies. Nonsense really, but people have always needed to mask natural occurrences with myth."

"This Lady of the Waves sounds more impressive than the Mother," Aillith said, knowing her uncle wouldn't mind the sacrilege; rather he blessed her with his crooked smile.

"I imagine she was," he said.

"Was?"

"The Andals slayed her long ago. Of course there are those stubborn Sistermen who cling to her memory still, but the Lady of the Waves perished long ago with all the others. That's the way of gods and men. There's always someone to take their place."

Aillith couldn't explain why, but his comment made her sad. She grazed the Three Sisters affectionately.

"Have you ever been there?" she asked. Her uncle shook his head.

"They used to have quite a fondness for throwing dwarves into the sea as offerings. I rather prefer to keep dry, though I've heard they have the best stew in the Kingdom."

"Are they part of Lord Eddard's lands?"

"No, but not for lack of trying. The Three Sisters belong to the Vale. The northmen tried to conquer them, but the island people bent the knee to the Eyrie in exchange for protection. I wouldn't go there if I were you, little dove. It's said the Sistermen still resent the north's invasion."

_Another place I'll never see_, Aillith thought. She leaned back in her chair, chewing over all she'd just heard, letting herself drift in thoughts of Queen Nymeria and the Lady of the Waves. She couldn't imagine lovemaking passionate enough to raise storms. She wondered if Robb had ever heard the legend and the thought brought a blush to her cheeks. Then she remembered the night of her wedding, how she'd felt dancing with Jon, how she'd longed to kiss him. _That was something like a storm._

Another knock at the door brought her back to the room once more. When Lord Eddard stepped across the threshold she felt none of the joy she had at seeing her uncle. She stood to greet him. Her uncle slid from his chair to do the same.

"Lord Eddard," Aillith murmured, lowering her head respectfully. When she looked back up at his face, severity in every line, her nerves

Another knock at the door brought her back to the room once more. When Lord Eddard stepped across the threshold she felt none of the joy she had at seeing her uncle. She stood to greet him. Her uncle slid from his chair to do the same.

"Lord Eddard," Aillith murmured, lowering her head respectfully. When she looked back up at his face, severity in every line, her nerves threatened to overcome her. He was nothing like her father. Everything about him seemed stern, from the way he moved to the careful way he spoke.

"Robb's out," she said, supposing he was in search of his son.

"Actually I came to see you, my lady," Lord Eddard stated. "There's something I thought you might like to see." He turned to her uncle. "You're welcome to join us, Lord Tyrion."

"Perhaps another time." Tyrion looked from Aillith to Eddard. He took his niece's hand on his way out and said, "I'll be in my rooms if you have any more questions."

As she watched him waddle to the door, Aillith resisted the desire to beg him to stay. The door closed behind him, leaving her alone with her father-in-law. Lord Eddard held out his arm and she took it, discomforted by their closeness, but not daring to refuse. She let him lead her from the room, through the deserted corridors of the castle and out into the yard. They didn't speak as they walked, Aillith finding her tongue to be tied. When they stopped before a small, wooden door she wondered what it was he meant to show her.

"Watch your step," Lord Eddard said, throwing open the door to reveal a long staircase winding into the darkness. He held her arm as they descended. Each step brought colder, staler air. She felt as though the steps would never end. _How far down are we now?_ Finally the ground leveled and she found herself in a cavernous room where shadows darted around the great, stone pillars. Lord Eddard moved ahead of her now, his steps as sure as ever despite the black all around them. The torches provided little light, but soon enough Aillith's eyes adjusted. She gasped when they stopped again, surrounded by menacing figures cut from stone.

"The crypts of Winterfell," Lord Eddard announced. He waved his hands at the stone figures. "I thought it was time you met my ancestors."

Aillith spun around, taking it all in. The stone eyes of the Starks dead and gone watched her closely, as did Lord Eddard's. She moved one of the statues, an unsmiling man with a rusted greatsword across his knees, and squinted at the inscription. _Bran the Builder._ In her mind she hadn't imagined him to look so frightening, but perhaps it was just the way the light of the flames flickered across his face. He bore no resemblance to little Bran Stark. There was no kindness in his stone-cut frown. She thought she heard the ghosts of Winterfell whispering to her. _It's only the draft_, she tried to reassure herself.

When she turned her gaze back to Lord Eddard he stood before the statue of a woman, his hand on her knee.

"Here lies Lyanna Stark," he read the engraved words at the base of the statue. "My sister."

Aillith knew about her. How could she not? It was no secret that her father loved the woman beyond all others, including his queen. She knew of how the woman had died as well, stolen and murdered by the Targaryens. It was a story her father often told when he was drunk and his tellings of it were the only time she'd seen tears come to his eyes. Looking at the statue, Aillith saw none of the bright beauty her father spoke of. Her brow was worn by the years, her expression empty.

"I wish they'd made her smile," Lord Eddard said, his voice tender. "In life all she did was smile."

"She was to wed my father," Aillith said, the darkness making her words seem small. _She could have been my mother._ The princess wondered what it'd have been like to have a mother who always smiled. She took a step towards Lord Eddard. He looked so sad now, haunted by the ghost of his beloved sister.

"I'm sorry," the princess said, finding that she wasn't quite as afraid him anymore.

"You need not apologize." Lord Eddard smiled down at her. "Lyanna died before you were even born."

"I'm still sorry." She'd never lost someone she loved. She had no way of knowing the depth of her father-in-law's loss, but his sorrow reached out to her. She looked at the statue of Lyanna Stark again, considering that she could just as easily be looking at the Lady of the Waves.

"I know this marriage has not been easy on you," Lord Eddard spoke again. Aillith parted her lips to deny the words, but found she couldn't say what was expected of her. "But I also see much of your father's strength in you. His hard-headedness."

Often her mother compared her to the king, though her expression was never nearly so fond as Lord Eddard's when she did.

"I've known your father for a long time," he said. "And I've known you for very little. When your father first proposed this union, I admit I had my doubts. Robb is my first-born, my heir, and I've only ever wished for him to be happy." Lord Eddard moved his hand from Lyanna's stone knee to the princess' shoulder. _A father's touch_, she thought.

"But I've seen enough of you to know that you're a better match for my son than I could have hoped for." Briefly, Aillith wondered if he knew of her actions in the training yard the other day. The sparkle in his eyes seemed to suggest that he did. Yet his words were far from disappointed.

"You're a Stark now," he said, his eyes roaming across his ancestors. "And my people are your people. I hope that someday you will consider this place home."

Neither of them feeling it was necessary to say more, they retreated from the crypts and the ghosts it held. On the dark journey back up the stairs, Aillith thought of all he'd said to her. She thought of the map waiting for her back in her chambers-the vast stretches of the north that remained so much a mystery despite all she'd learned, but when they broke into the sunlight once more she realized that perhaps she could come to love this place.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Read, review, enjoy.

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"There is no such thing as pure pleasure." -Ovid

Aillith

She stood at the prow of a ship as the waves pushed her ever closer to the edge of the world. The water roared over all other sound, crashing into the abyss. She could see where the water ended and then there was nothing but golden mist. She leaned forward, her arms spread trying to catch the storm, and as she faced the end of all things she found she wasn't afraid. _This is it_, she thought.

"We're free," she said, turning to the man beside her. Jon Snow took her hand in his.

"We're free," he repeated. Together they looked ahead. The water's end was near now. She couldn't see Jon anymore for the golden mists all around them. The air itself sparkled like gold. _Lannister gold_, she thought, laughing as their ship dipped over the edge and they fell on and on and…

Aillith woke. She opened her eyes to the daylight, the same color as the golden mist. Already the details of her dream were fading as she took in the dark canopy above, but she felt the lingering calm buzzing through her body- a blessed peace she'd never known before. She lay for a moment, content to let the morning roll over her, and tried to hold onto the dream even as it slipped away. She didn't notice that her husband wasn't in bed beside her, fast asleep as he usually was, until he spoke from the other side of the room.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." He looked sheepish, only half way dressed with his shirt tangled around his neck. He pulled it the rest of the way on as she propped up on her elbows, partly amused by the sight of him and partly embarrassed that he'd woken before her. She tried to be out of the room long before he rose to spare them both the awkwardness of each other's company.

"You didn't wake me," she said, the pleasant effects of her dream making it easier for her to speak to him. "I fell."

Robb looked at her curiously, his head cocked to the side.

"In my dream," she explained. "I fell. They say you always wake up before you hit the ground." Not that she knew there'd been any ground waiting for her at the end of all things. She imagined that if she hadn't woken up she'd have kept falling forever.

"I hadn't heard that," Robb said, buckling his belt. When he was finished dressing, he gestured to the table and the platter of smoking bacon atop it. "There's breakfast if you're hungry."

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"Already did."

"Oh."

"I'd have waited for you," he said, a flush creeping up his neck. "If I'd known you'd wake up before I left." He shuffled his feet against the thick, fur carpeting. Aillith noticed that he averted his gaze while she rose from the covers and pulled her woolen dressing gown over her nightclothes. Though she didn't mention it, she appreciated the gesture. He was her husband, after all. He had every right to see her.

"Where are you going?" she asked, standing by the foot of the bed.

"Hunting. It was your father's idea. I think he's getting bored." Robb gave her a timid smile. She returned it equally as shy. "You could come, if you wanted."

"Thank you, but I have other plans." She was supposed to meet Bran. _And soon_, Aillith thought, taking in the position of the sun. He'd promised they could try climbing the Broken Tower today, after hours of her arguing that she was ready. They'd already done the stables, the western walls and the First Keep. Aillith was a fast learner when she said her mind to the task. Her old maester used to complain that she was the worst student he'd ever had and she'd have liked to tell him that it was only because he was the worst teacher. Bran was much better and climbing much more enjoyable.

"We should be back by dark," Robb said, throwing his cloak over his shoulders and hesitating at the door.

"Do you play cyvasse?" she blurted as he reached for the handle. Her husband looked back at him, one eyebrow quirked.

"Yes," he said slowly, as though there might be a trick to her question.

"Perhaps when you return we could play," Aillith said in a rush. "My uncle gave me a new set as a wedding gift. It hasn't been used yet."

"Alright," Robb said. "I'd like that." He smiled again, turned to the door, paused and strode back across the room to where she stood. Before Aillith could react he bumped his lips to her cheeks and then retreated, his cloak flapping behind him. Once the door had closed she remained frozen where she was. After a minute she brought her hand to her cheek.

Aillith dressed quickly, not bothering to wait for Alodie to arrive. She grabbed a dress from the wardrobe and then noticing her husband's clothes hung alongside her own she replaced the gown with a one of his tunics and a pair of the plainest breeches she could find. As she pulled on his clothes she felt a twinge of guilt.

"Jon said he wouldn't mind," she muttered to herself as she laced up the breeches. They were a bit too big, but belted tightly they'd do just fine. The clothes smelled of him and she was surprised to find that the scent wasn't altogether displeasing. Having shared a bed with him for the past ten days his smell had become familiar without her being aware of it.

She made her way through the halls of Winterfell without getting lost once. It seemed more than her husband's scent had become familiar. As she hurried down the castle steps, skipping every other one in her haste to meet Bran, she felt almost at home. The knights practicing in the training ground, the stable hands leading the horses for their morning exercise, the daily goings on of Winterfell greeted her like an old friend. Perhaps it was still her dream foggy on the outskirts of her mind that put her in such a good mood or perhaps it was the promising interaction she'd had with her husband that morning. Clumsy and brief as their conversation had been, the tension between them hadn't seemed quite so thick. In fact, Aillith couldn't deny that she looked forward to besting him at a round of cyvasse later that night. _It's past time we got to know each other_. She touched the cheek he'd kissed again. _I haven't been fair to him. Maybe he's not so bad. Maybe this marriage isn't so bad._

She'd grown rather fond of Winterfell and the other Starks. It gave her hope that she might also grow fond of her husband. _He's sweet in his own northern way, _she thought, remembering the kiss and the wilted flowers at their bedside.

Cheerier than she'd been since first being told of her marriage, Aillith rounded the corner and saw the Broken Tower waiting for her, but when her eyes trailed down to the ground she stopped mid-step. All her happiness left in her less than a second as she stared horrified at the broken body lying in the dirt. Then she was running, her feet flying over the hard ground. She fell to her knees at the body, knowing who it was by the smallness of his body and the streaks of chestnut in his hair under the morning glare.

"Bran," she cried, the name catching in her throat. She rolled him over gently, pulling his body into her lap. "Bran," she cried louder. The boy didn't respond. He was still as death in her arms. He face was a pulpy mess, a deep violet bruise flowering across his cheek. Blood spilled from him, though she didn't know from where. The ground drank its fill. Aillith's hands were red. The dark stains soaked into Robb's clothes as she clutched the boy to her chest.

"Help," she whispered, unable to make her voice any louder. _Wake up_, she told herself. _Wake up now. _Just minutes ago she'd told Robb that it was impossible to hit the ground in dreams and now she hoped she was wrong.

"Please," she sobbed. "Please!" She kept saying the same word. Over and over again, her cries becoming louder each time. Even when her throat was raw, she kept screaming, but by the time she heard running footsteps approaching from behind she knew it was too late. This was no dream.

"He's dead," she sobbed, oblivious to the men who surrounded her. When someone tried to unwind her arm's from the boy, she lashed out, still screaming though not in any known language. She clung to Bran's lifeless body. Falling…falling… Just before the nothingness took her, Aillith thought she caught a glimpse of long, blonde hair streaming from the crumbling window of the Broken Tower.


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: Oops. Thank you Patrick for pointing out the messed up lay out of this chapter! Fixed now. Read, review, enjoy.

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"You were a stranger to sorrow: therefore Fate has cursed you." -Alcestis

Robb

The sound of his mother's sobs had been near unbearable. Her wails had reached them even before they charged through the gate. The hunting party hadn't been far from Winterfell when the messenger had found them. Robb had taken one look at his bloodless face and known the news he carried was dire. However, it was worse than he could possibly have imagined. _Not Bran_, he begged to any gods that might be listening. _Please, he's just a boy._

Catelyn had ceased crying, but her silence was even worse. She stared at the wall, her eyes glazed from the potion they'd given to calm her. She'd protested taking it, but in the end Eddard had coaxed her into downing the vile of clear liquid. Now she seemed lifeless, save for the way she twisted her hands together. Beside her Eddard stood equally as silent, his stillness so absolute it reminded Robb of the statues in the crypts. Unlike his parents, Robb had to move. He paced back and forth in front of the closed door of Bran's room, his footsteps the only sound to mark the passing time of their sorrow.

_He was going to be a knight, _Robb thought. _He was going to have adventures I never could. _Inside the room maester Luwin, the royal physician and even the commoner's doctor from the town were gathered. Robb couldn't hear anything through the thick, wooden door. He longed to burst into the room, to see his brother if only to reassure himself that Bran wasn't dead. Time had never trickled so slowly. The wait was agonizing. Robb pulled his fingers through his hair. For the hundredth time he ran through the details the messenger had given them.

Bran had fallen from the Broken Tower. The princess had found him. Robb hadn't seen his wife yet. He'd gone with his father straight to Bran's room, but he'd been told that Aillith had been taken to bed and given something to make her sleep.

"She was half mad," the messenger had said as they'd rode hard back to Winterfell. "Wouldn't let the young lord go and kept screaming about the end of all things."

The day had greeted them full of false hope. Now as he continued to pace, Robb remembered his wedding hunt, the great stag that Theon had shot down and the darkness he'd felt breathing at the back of his neck as he'd sat with the dying creature. He thought the cryptic warnings of the beast's death were now upon them. _Please not Bran. Let him live. I'll do anything if only you let him live._

The old gods answered in the form of Maester Luwin exiting Bran's chambers. The old man's face was grim, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Robb pounced on him.

"How is he?" he said. He looked past Maester Luwin, trying to catch a glimpse of his brother before the door was closed again. The court physician and the village doctor looked at the Starks sympathetically.

"I am truly sorry," the court physician said, averting his gaze from Catelyn's red eyes. The words left Robb cold. He looked to Maester Luwin, desperate for answers, but the old man waited for the physician and the village doctor to disappear around the corner before he spoke.

"My lord," he said, a tremble in his voice, "We've done all we can for now."

"What does that mean?" Robb demanded. "Will Bran live?" He wanted to grab Maester Luwin by the chain around his wrinkled neck and shake the truth from him.

"He lives for the moment, but we must prepare ourselves for the worst. His injuries are…severe. Nearly every bone in his body is broken. He may be bleeding on the inside. There's no way to tell."

"There has to be something you can do," Robb cried, his words ringing down the empty corridor.

"Robb," his father said, rubbing his temples. "Shouting helps no one."

"Is he in pain?" Catelyn whispered.

"I do now know, my lady. We must wait. If he makes it through the night, it's possible he will survive." But Maester Luwin didn't appear confident that Bran would last the next hour, let alone the long night ahead.

Catelyn's knees collapsed beneath her, a fresh sob catching in her throat. Robb moved to catch her, but his father reached her first. He swept his wife into his arms. Her gasping breaths were muffled against his chest.

"I'm taking her to bed," Eddard said. Without another word, he turned away from them and began walking down the hall. Maester Luwin moved to follow, but Robb grabbed his arm.

"May I see him?" he asked. Maester Luwin nodded. When Robb let him go he shuffled after Eddard.

Once they'd gone, Robb put his hands against the door, trying to calm himself before he entered. He didn't know what he'd find on the other side. Images of Bran's body, broken and bloody, left him feeling sick. Not sure he could confront the sight, he considered running as far from the room as his legs would carry him. He wanted to flee, to be far from the presence of death that hung over them all, but he doubted he'd be able to run far enough. _Bran needs me_, he thought, taking a deep breath. _I can't abandon him now. I must be brave._ But when he opened the door, the darkness swooped in on him and he'd never felt less brave in his life. The salty smell of blood and the putrid sweetness of sickness assaulted him.

He moved to Bran's bedside and looked down at the small boy. With his injuries concealed by the furs, he looked as though he were only sleeping. Robb knelt on the floor at his side, afraid to sit on the bed should it disturb his brother. He had no way of knowing how long he remained there, praying until his throat was too sore to speak. He kept seeing Bran falling from the Broken Tower, his arms outstretched. He saw him lying in a pool of blood and broken bone. Eventually it was too much- the smell, the peaceful expression of death on his brother's face. Robb couldn't stop himself from running this time.

He kept going, blind to the world around him. Someone called his name, but he didn't stop to see who it was. He washed up at the edge of the godswood pond, unable to keep the tears at bay any longer. A mangled scream ripped through him, the force of it making the leaves of the heart tree shiver. He beat his fists against the ground until they bled and then he clawed at the dirt, needing something to hold onto else he felt he'd be carried away by his rage and fear. A twig snapped behind him, signaling that he wasn't alone, but he didn't acknowledge his companion.

"Robb," the princess' voice broke around his name like waves against the shore. When she joined him at the edge of the pond and wrapped her arms around him, Robb didn't pull away. He didn't have the strength to. Instead he rested his head in her lap, her tears falling on him like rain. She stroked his hair, murmuring words he couldn't hear, and he felt like a child again, terrified by nightmares and curled in his mother's lap. He's pride and anger left him, leaving nothing but pain. Strange sounds he didn't recognize as his own swelled from his lips. The princess rocked him gently like a babe.

"He was supposed to be a knight," Robb rasped after he could cry no longer. Aillith held him tighter.

"He still will be," she said. They didn't speak further as night fell around them. The moon's reflection shimmered on the surface of the pond. In the distance wolves howled, a long mournful chorus.


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: Read, review, enjoy.

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"Each player must accept the cards life deals him. But once they are in hand, he alone must decide, how to play the cards in order to win the game."

Cersei

Breakfast was a solemn affair. Even the children were quite, but for different reasons than their mother. _They can sense that something's wrong, _Cersei Lannister thought as she watched Myrcella roll her uneaten sausage across her plate. Of course they did. Though she hadn't told them about Bran, Lady Catelyn's heartbroken cries probably had. Reaching every corner of the castle, they'd kept Cersei up all night. Robert hadn't come to bed. He'd stayed with Lord Eddard, acting as less of a king and more of a friend. The queen herself had tossed and turned until the sun rose. She'd longed to find her twin, but hadn't dared search him out since the incident at the Tower.

"The things I do for love," Jamie had said just before he'd pushed the boy from the window. _What other choice did he have? The boy saw too much. He would have told. _Yet Lady Catelyn's wailed had made it difficult to keep a clear conscience. Cersei wasn't pleased with what had happened. She wasn't pleased that the boy had lived either. All morning she'd been on edge, startled by the smallest of sounds and plagued by the possibility that Bran Stark might wake at any moment to confess what he'd seen.

The door to the royal guest's solar opened and Aillith stepped into the room, dark shadows beneath her eyes. She sat without a word beside her sister, but didn't move to fill her plate.

"Any news of the boy?" Cersei asked, acting concerned when all she felt was dread.

"No," Aillith muttered. She glanced at her mother than quickly looked away. The queen's blood ran cold. She'd caught a brief glimpse of something in her daughter's eyes- suspicion. Cersei had seen her find the boy. She couldn't quite say what had compelled her to look down, perhaps to ascertain that Bran Stark had died in the fall, that he hadn't managed to cling to some jutting stone and save himself. What she'd seen had been worse than she'd expected- her own daughter clinging to the child, crying out for help, and while she hadn't been sure at the time, she'd thought Aillith might have seen her. The way her daughter now avoided her gaze ascertained that fear. Her heart pounded so loudly she expected the others at the table to hear it, the sound a confirmation of her guilt.

"Is Bran going to die?" Myrcella asked. Aillith's jerked, knocking over the jug before her. Dark red wine spread across the tablecloth, reminding Cersei of the way the boy's blood had spread in the tower's shade. The sight made her ill. She beckoned impatiently at the servants to clean up the mess, wishing that it was so easy to remove the stains on her hands.

"He's not going to die," Aillith stated. "He's strong."

"We must pray for him," Cersei added. She reached out to touch her oldest daughter's hand, hoping to appear sympathetic, but the girl drew back and folded her hands under the table. She looked at her mother again, a blend of confusion and wonder in her eyes, as though she were trying to decipher something. Cersei couldn't bare her scrutiny. She rose quickly from the table.

"Myrcella, eat your food," she said. "And take Tommen back to his room when you're finished. I think I'll go to the Sept."

But the Sept was the last place she intended to go, because she knew it was the last place her brother would be. She needed to find him. Dread walked two steps behind her as she scoured every last inch of Winterfell. _Jamie will know what to do, _she told herself. _He knew what to do about the boy and he'll know what to do about Aillith._

Finally she found him strolling along one of the eastern corridors. Cersei grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into a hidden niche. He took in her panic-stricken expression and placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

"She knows," Cersei blurted before her twin had a chance to ask the cause of her distress. "Aillith, she saw me in the window. I know she did. I can see it in her eyes."

"Calm down," Jamie murmured. "I can't understand a thing you're saying."

Cersei took a deep breath. She buried her face against his chest, clinging to the part of her that had been missing all morning. After a moment she regained herself and tried to explain her fears again.

"Aillith saw me in the window." She expected her brother to react to the words, but his face remained as still as calm water, giving away nothing. Cersei had always admired that trait in him- his ability to act as though nothing was wrong. Often she was gripped by worry, yet he was always there, the solid ground beneath her feet.

Jamie checked the corridor to assure that they were alone before speaking again.

"And what makes you think she knows?" he asked.

"The way she looked at me at breakfast. She suspects something. I know it."

"The way she looked at you?" Jamie scoffed. "That's no sure proof." Cersei pulled away from his touch and scowled at him.

"I don't need more proof. I'm her mother," she snapped.

"You're exhausted," Jamie said, trying to soothe her. Cersei didn't want to be consoled. When he tried to bring his hand to her cheek, she slapped it away.

"This is serious," she hissed. "What if she tells someone? Robert will have my head. He's been looking for an excuse to be rid of me for years."

"What would you have me do?" Jamie asked, folding his arms across his chest. "Toss her out a window?"

Cersei wasn't sure what she wanted from him. She considered the implication of his words. Pushing Aillith from a window certainly wasn't an option. After Bran's fall it would raise far too many questions. Poison might suffice. If the girl were to become ill…_No, I can't. She's my daughter._ Regardless how she felt about the girl, she couldn't kill her. The idea was repulsive, yet Cersei couldn't deny it lingered on her mind. _But what other choice do I have?_

As though he could since what she was thinking, Jamie recoiled.

"I won't become a kinslayer as well as a kingslayer," he declared. "If you want to kill your daughter, you'll have to do it on your own."

Cersei slumped against the wall, his words quelling the momentary idea. Even if she could bring herself to have the girl killed, she wasn't strong enough to do it without her brother. Jamie's expression softened. When he wrapped his arms around her, she didn't fight him this time. She needed him too much.

"It will be alright," he murmured against her soft, blonde hair. "Aillith was crazed. She won't know what she saw."

Cersei desperately wanted to find some comfort in his words. She recalled the hint of confusion in her daughter's eyes as well as the accusation. _Perhaps he's right. She couldn't have caught more than a quick glimpse of me. And she was certainly mad, the way she screamed…_

"Perhaps you should speak to her about it," Jamie proposed.

"No," Cersei said, her resolve strengthened once more. "It will only make her suspect me more. We'll carry on as normal. By week's end will be far from this place and gods willing the boy will have died by then."

"I doubt he'll make it through the day," Jamie said. She thought she detected a hint of bitterness in his voice, but brushed it aside. She had enough to worry about without adding her brother's personal guilt to the list.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke their embrace. They pulled apart. Cersei slipped out of the niche first and strode down the hall, her head held high. _Aillith won't tell anyone_, she told herself. After all, they were blood; even if they'd never been close Cersei couldn't imagine that the girl would bring about her own mother's execution. Then she remembered that not moments ago she'd genuinely considered having the girl killed. _Could I have done it? Could I have murdered my own first-born?_ Disposing of the boy was one thing. The Stark child meant nothing to her, tragic as the death of one so young always was.

She returned to Tommen's chambers and found her two youngest waiting for her. She scooped up her baby boy in her arms, took Myrcella's hand and crawled into bed with them. Jamie was right. She needed to rest if she was to play the role of the sympathetic queen and dispel Aillith's silent accusations. Holding her youngest children tightly, stroking Tommen's blonde curls and listening to their soft breaths against the pillows, Cersei found herself unable to drift off as the answer to her questions came to her unbidden. Yes, if it came to it she could have Aillith killed. If it meant protecting her three other beloved children, her and Jamie's babies, she would murder everyone else in the world. The realization of what she was capable of left her more frightened than she'd ever been before.


End file.
